


Love All

by newbie93



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AOS, F/M, FitzSimmons - Freeform, Wimbledon - Freeform, rating will likely go up, rom com, wimbledon au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-09-21 20:56:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 98,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9566063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newbie93/pseuds/newbie93
Summary: Leo Fitz is a former tennis prodigy turned lowly ranked player who’s decided to take one last shot at Wimbledon before putting his racquets away for good. Jemma Simmons is the English darling at the peak of her career who, as the World #1, is the favorite to win.What happens when Britain’s long shot and golden girl cross paths at the biggest Grand Slam in the nation? Love All.





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> This is the Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. take on the swell rom-com that is 2004's Wimbledon. The characters belong to Marvel and the plot is inspired by the film (with some minor to major tweaks to better suit Fitz and Simmons) so credit must be given to both.
> 
> This sucker is unbetaed so apologies for any egregious or barely noticeable errors. 
> 
> The plan is to post every Friday and possibly/hopefully every Monday or Tuesday as well (but no promises).

“Fresh grass, new state of the art netting, long-wear chalk. I think you’ll find our courts to be quite satisfactory Mr. Fitz.”

The look on the elder man in front of him makes Fitz slightly nauseous, the eagerness a bit overwhelming considering how much he himself is dreading the prospect of spending even one day on the Kensington Country Club’s, “fresh grass.”

He glances across the green expanse at the 6 pristine tennis courts, varying degrees of retired men and women tapping neon balls back and forth, and lets out a defeated sigh at the image. He can hear Mr. Edmunton chattering on about the sprinkler system and feels his heart quicken as the sight in front of him is replaced with one that his mind is conjuring: him in his tennis whites, after fifteen years on the circuit, feeding ball after ball to an endless supply of club members three decades his senior.

“…ladies are _really_ looking forward to having a new tennis director.”

Fitz can’t stop the grimace from crossing his face, inwardly and outwardly blanching when one of said _ladies_ catches his eye across the green and shoots him a particularly disturbing wink that lasts nearly three seconds. He ducks his head down, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans, giving another small sigh as he trails behind Edmunton and continues on with the tour.

They make their way through the rest of the admittedly impressive grounds before the older man gives him a beaming clap on the back and offers to walk him back to his car. Fitz does his best to return the other man’s smile, doing just enough to convince Edmunton that it’s genuine without straining all 26 muscles to do so. When they reach the little silver coupe (one of the few splurges Fitz made while in his financial prime) the stout man turns to him with a raised eyebrow and an expression that immediately clues Fitz into what’s coming.

“Now Leopold, may I call you Leo?”

_Please don’t._

“Oh… well I actually prefer Fi…”

The other man barrels over him before he can finish his sentence and Fitz realizes that Leopold and Leo are certainly more suited for a posh English country club than _Fitz._

_Yet another reason to steer clear._

“Leopold, we _desperately_ need a tennis Director and we’d very much like _you_ to be our man… but we can’t hold the position open forever you see.”

The man peers over his spectacles with a hinting look and Fitz nods his head sagely to match Edmunton’s seriousness. “Yes sir, I understand completely.”

It’s silent for a moment as the other man peers speculatively at him and Fitz once again shoves his hands in his pockets to prevent them from twitching. The older man returns the nod, patting his stomach twice before continuing forward with what Fitz feels is an odd hybrid between a proposition and a low-grade warning.

“Now, I’m more than happy to keep it for you during the next few weeks while you’re in London but… I can’t on good conscience do so unless I know for _certain_ that once you’re out… you plan on actually _taking_ the position. Otherwise we’ll unfortunately have to look elsewhere.”

Fitz feels a small pang of hurt and bitterness at, “ _once you’re out,”_ but pushes it down in favor of focusing on the fact that it’s time for a decision. He closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath as his hand moves to rub at his neck before blinking them open and sighing. He feels his lips quirk upwards in the least believable smile he’s ever mustered and says, “No need to look elsewhere Mr. Edmunton. You’ve got yourself a new tennis Director.”

He extends his hand and winces slightly when the other man clasps it in both of his own, giving it an enthusiastic shake that rattles Fitz to his core. “Oh splendid! We can sign the papers once you’re back for good then!”

Fitz can feel the bile rise in his throat again at the other man’s words and has to consciously fight to keep it down. It’s overdramatic, and he’s well aware that being the tennis Director at one of Britain’s most elite clubs isn’t exactly something to be _ashamed_ of, but Fitz can’t help but thinking that when he’s, “back for good,” what he’ll _actually_ be doing is signing his _life_ away for good.

Though, it’s not as though he’ll have many post-retirement options.

Very few people are looking to hire an incredibly intelligent former child prodigy who passed on academics in favor of becoming a _tennis_ prodigy instead.

Fitz plasters on another small smile and nods his head, not wanting to disrespect or upset a man who’s been nothing but kind to him, and resigns himself to the fact that _once he’s out,_ this will be his new life. He’s about to open his mouth to launch into the obligatory thanks that his mother would be ashamed if he didn’t vocalize, but before he gets the first word out he hears a nasally voice calling out behind him.

“Frederick darling! Who’s this strapping young lad with you? Have you been hiding him from us?”

Fitz winces at the sound and winces _again_ when he turns around to see the _winker_ walking towards him and _Frederick_ with a lascivious look that he finds to be rather terrifying. Edmunton of course throws his head back in boisterous laughter, evidently finding great humor in the woman’s teasing comment, before thwacking Fitz on the back hard enough to cause him to stumble forward a bit.

“Oh nonsense, Mary! This is Leopold, our new tennis Director.”

The woman stops once she’s a foot away from them, peering at Fitz as though she’s trying to place him, and he knows that it’s only a matter of time before she does. “Well don’t you look familiar. Hmm, Leopold… not Leopold _Fitz?_ ”

Her eyes seem to light up at the thought and the only person who seems more delighted by her observation is Edmunton, who puffs out his chest and turns to Fitz with a haughty look of pride. “The very one! Pro at thirteen, Davis cup winner at fifteen, a right national treasure back in his youth! And now he’s got himself a wild-card draw for the tourney! Coming to Kensington the moment he’s through!”

Mary raises a brow at this, expertly catering to Edmunton’s desire to show off and clapping her hands in excitement over the news. She takes another step forward, Fitz having to do everything in his power not to follow his instincts and take his own step _back,_ and squeezes his forearm while her gaze remains steady.

“Ah yes, Leo Fitz, boy wonder! Why, weren’t you ranked fourteenth at one point?”

The familiar feeling of irritation over the inaccuracy of her guess flickers through him and Fitz gives her a terse smile before doing his very best to be _polite_ while correcting her. “Ninth actually but…”

Mary cuts him off before he can finish, likely not hearing a word he’d said, and (thankfully) retracts her fingers from his arm to once again clasp her hands together with an excitement that Fitz feels should be reserved for occasions that actually warrant it.

“Oh and now you’ll be joining us! How wonderful! Careful around Edith, Leopold, she quite likes a young gun in tennis whites.”

She gives him a conspiratorial wink, another uncomfortably long one that has Fitz worrying her eye might actually be _stuck_ like that _,_ and then shifts her gaze. Her eyes rove over him and Fitz feels himself flush at her blatant staring, coming to the conclusion that Edith likely isn’t the _only_ one he should be careful around. Thankfully Edmunton breaks the tension, sexual on the old dame’s part and wholly awkward on Fitz’s, with a loud guffaw that he couples with another loud pat of his stomach.

“Ho ho, careful now Mary! Don’t scare the poor boy off before his first day!”

Fitz finds himself entranced by the other man’s sausage-like finger as he waggles it in jest at the woman before shaking his head and deciding that now is _definitely_ the time to be going.

“Right well… Mr. Edmunton, thank you for taking the time to show me around. Mrs…” Fitz pauses slightly as a courtesy, waiting for the older woman to finish his sentence and regretting it immediately when she does what he thinks is her version of a saunter and once again squeezes his arm.

“ _Miss_ Robinson…”

_You have got to be kidding._

“…unfortunately my former husband decided to run off with the pool boy, leaving me a lonely divorcée with more money and time than I know what to do with. I’ll be seeing a _lot_ of you Leopold… the club is like my second home after all.”

He can feel her thumb rubbing along his forearm and with each stroke Fitz feels himself grow a modicum more nauseous and abundantly more red in the cheeks. Letting out a nervous bout of laughter, he hastily pats her hand, pushing it off his arm in the process, and backs away slightly with some stuttered excuse.

“Right. Okay well… I really must be going now. I promised my mother I’d pop in before heading out…”

“Oh a _mother’s_ boy. How delightful.”

Fitz ignores Miss Robinson’s purr and instead directs his gaze towards Edmunton as he clambers into his car with a wave. “Thank you again sir, I’ll be in touch!”

He turns on the car the moment his backside hits the seat, revving the engine loud enough that he can block out most of Mary’s shout, only (and _thankfully)_ catching the tail end of it. “…surely you can stay a little longer! Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

He gives her a wry grin before pulling out of the parking space and driving away from the looming country club, throwing out one final shout behind him as he does.

“Wimbledon!”


	2. Pit Stop

The trip from the club to the Fitz matriarch’s home takes just under thirty minutes and by the time he’s pulling into the drive he’s digested all of the finger sandwiches he’d munched on at the club and is sufficiently famished. He hops out of the car and makes his way into the small English cottage that he’d purchased for his mother after his first major year of winnings in order for her to be closer to his training facility, and by proxy closer to  _ him. _

A part of him still wonders if his mother only moved to England because she'd felt obligated to, too kind and loving to say no to an eager boy, dangling new house keys in front of her, who missed his mum and wanted her nearby. He still sometimes muses if she’d much prefer her life back home in Scotland and regrets letting him chase one dream over the other- regrets letting him grow up faster than he should have.

She’s never expressed anything but pride, cheering him on since he’d picked up his first racquet, but Fitz still has the niggling fear that he selfishly took her away from something she loved only to force her to put up with something she simply doesn’t mind. It’d been easier to avoid such thoughts when he’d actually been a champion, a young prodigy predicted to bring win after win to Britain, but as of late the self-doubt and guilt has multiplied by ten-fold.

Fitz takes a moment to sit in his car and simply stare at the house in front of him before he takes a deep breath in an attempt to rid himself of the darkening thoughts and latent guilt, and clambers out of the vehicle. His pace is slow and steady as he makes his way to the front door and he’s pleased to find that his nerves seem to dissipate with each step he takes. It’s not uncommon, feeling completely at ease in his mother’s presence, and Fitz revels in the sensation that he hasn’t experienced in some time. He pushes the door of the house open with a grin, ducking his head in before entering completely.

“Mum?”

There’s no immediate response so Fitz ambles his way through the house, poking his head in each room he passes in search of his mother. When he ambles up the stairs he hears faint voices and makes his way to the end of the hall, pausing just before reaching for the doorknob when he hears just what said voices are saying, rather, what they’re  _ moaning. _

_ “Oh god… yes.” _

_ “Harder… harder!” _

He feels the blood drain from his face at the unfortunate visual that such noises are bringing to the forefront of his mind. 

Images of some bloke and…and… and his  _ mother. _

“This isn’t happening, this is  _ not  _ happening.” Whatever nausea he’d felt earlier at the club  _ pales  _ in comparison to the churning of the gut that Fitz feels now, and he slowly backs away from the door in the hopes that he’ll be able to book it as far away as possible before the room’s occupants sense his presence.

He makes it a few steps backward before freezing in place when he hears his mother’s voice coming from _outside_. 

“Leo? Is that you sweetheart?”

His gaze moves over to the small window in the hallway where he spots his favorite woman in the world weaving her way through her garden towards the back door of the house and questions what it means that she’s outside when…

_ “There! Right there! Yes… yes… yes!” _

His eyes snap back down the hall where he can still hear what is  _ definitely  _ some sort of…  _ coupling…  _ and Fitz feels his eyebrows furrow in confusion as he tries to figure out what the bloody hell is going on. Just as he’s contemplating making his way back to the room with a baseball bat, the moaning stops abruptly and a third voice rings out.

“Did you say Leo, Mrs. F? Oy is Fitzy home?!”

In the next moment, Lance Hunter is popping his head out of the guest bedroom, dressed in a frankly ridiculous amount of spandex, and letting out a boisterous, “Fitz,” when he spots him standing in the hall.

Fitz feels his mouth open in surprise at the sight, shaking his head as if doing so will clear the image in front of him and confirm that it’s just a mirage, but when Lance’s maniacal grin is still in place, all Fitz can muster is a confused, “What the…”

Fitz is enveloped in Hunter’s arms before he can finish his question and it only takes him a few moments before he’s returning his best friend’s hug with a boisterous laugh. The laugh turns into a choking gag when he processes how sweaty the other man is, getting a particularly pungent whiff of him, and realizes that the spandex suit does very little to hide the fact that his friend was most  _definitely_  just watching porn. 

He pushes Lance away with a blanched face, cuffing him playfully on the head and raising his hands to swat away his friend when the other man comes in for a noogie.

“What the  _ hell _ are you doing here Hunter? And what’s with all the spandex?” Fitz looks at the other man, eyes taking in the cycling kit and gaze pointedly staying waist-high, before moving towards the stairs and motioning for Hunter to follow.

“Mate I  _ told  _ you. Me and Bob split again and I needed a place to stay. Your mum said I could take the guest room so long as I don’t mind the exercise bike in there, which I  _ don’t  _ by the by- pretty sure I’m fit as ever!”

He makes a show of flexing his muscles and Fitz can’t stop the laugh from escaping at the sight of Lance Hunter in bloody  _ spanx  _ trying to look like one of the Iron men thrice his size. He gets cuffed on the head by the other man for his snort of laughter and rolls his eyes at the feigned look of hurt on Hunter’s face. After a brief staring contest Lance cuts the act, grinning and shrugging before continuing with his explanation.

“Anyways… yeah. I get to crash here and in return I just help out with whatever dear Linda needs helping out with. Win-win!”

Fitz has a pretty decent feeling that it’s slightly more of a win for Hunter than it is for his mother but decides that saying as much wouldn’t do anyone any good. Hunter’s a laugh but doesn’t accept help or charity, no matter how many times Fitz might have offered in the past, and it likely took his mother telling a few white lies about her needing help in order to convince Hunter to accept  _ hers.  _ So instead of focusing on the how’s and why’s, Fitz just claps his oldest friend on the back with an encouraging grin. It seems to do the trick because Hunter winks in response, silently accepting the support before raising a brow and giving Fitz a knowing look that makes him shift his gaze to his feet.

“Come bearing bad news I assume?”

Fitz’s face grimaces on instinct at the familiar topic of discussion and it’s enough to cause Hunter to realize that he’s hit the figurative Penn on the Head.

“Bloody hell mate, she’ll be crushed!”

Fitz groans at the other man’s rather  _ loud  _ exclamation and ducks his head around the corner to make certain his mother isn’t in hearing distance. He can make out the telltale sounds of her puttering around the kitchen so he grabs Lance by the ear and tugs him further down the hallway and further  _ away  _ from his mum. When they're at a safe distance, Fitz turns to Hunter with a hiss and launches into the defense he’s been rehearsing in his mind since first promising to stop by before heading for London.

“I haven’t won a  _ single _ match at Wimbledon with mum in the stands! I can’t do it… at this point superstition and luck is really all I have going for me.”

Hunter is rolling his eyes before Fitz even gets the full sentence out and the 360 spin ends with him shooting Fitz a pointed look that screams how dumb he finds the excuse. Of course, he still  _ vocalizes  _ his feelings as well. “Oh c’mon Fitz that’s a little dramatic even for you.”

Fitz groans, rubbing his hands tiredly over his face before throwing them up in defeat. “I  _ know  _ that! I know okay! But it’s true and it’s dumb and the Fitz who won the science fair pre-discovery is screaming at me for believing in something as ridiculous as  _ superstition  _ but I just can’t do it Hunt.”

Fitz watches as the other man opens his mouth to argue and barrels forward with his  _ real  _ reason for wanting to keep his mother as far away from the stands of Wimbledon as possible. “Plus I… I don’t want her to see me lose.”

The soft confession seems to stop Hunter in his tracks because, rather than hearing any sort of rebuttal, Fitz just feels a soft squeeze to the shoulder and sees a look of understanding on his friend’s face. Telling Lance was easy enough but there’s still the matter of…

“Leo!”

Fitz whips around and is greeted by the sight of his mother, making her way down the hallway with her arms open and a beaming smile on her face. He lets himself be pulled into the warmth of her arms and can’t stop his own grin from making its way across his face as he feels her pat his back affectionately and give him an affectionate kiss to the cheek.

His smile falters slightly when she pulls away, eyes gleaming with excitement, and asks, “Are you dropping off my tickets?”

Fitz doesn’t miss the look Lance shoots him over his mother’s shoulder and grimaces at the hopeful eagerness that greets him when he glances back at the woman who’d given him life.

“Umm… not quite…”

Her expression instantly morphs into one of disappointment and Fitz winces at her soft, “I’m not invited again am I?”

Apparently his guilty expression is enough to confirm her suspicions because his mother turns around with a sigh, beckoning for him to follow her into the kitchen as she says, “Well come on then, you can explain yourself and then grovel at my feet in apology while we eat some lunch.”

Fitz hears an unmistakable clucking coming from behind him and groans when Hunter appears at his side with an, “Honestly, not letting your _own mother_ watch you play your last tournament as a professional tennis player. Low blow mate, low blow.”

Fitz shoots his friend a glare, brushing past him and muttering, “Shove off Hunter,” as he follows his mother down the hall and prepares for an afternoon of apologies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear not. Jemma is most definitely in this fic and she will in fact be making her first appearance sooner rather than later. (Friday)


	3. The Dorchester

After Fitz manages to apologize to his mother another dozen times, doing his very best to quash the guilt he feels looking at the soft smile that doesn’t quite manage to hide the disappointment in her eyes, he spots his watch and realizes that it’s time for him to go.

Both Hunter and his mum walk him to the door, Lance giving him a clap on the back before sending him off with a jovial wave and giving mother and son a moment alone. His mother loops her arm through his as they make their way to his car, a comfortable silence between them, and Fitz inhales deeply at the calm that he feels while being in her presence.

When they come to a stop in front of the small coupe and he realizes that said calmness is fleeting, Fitz turns to his mother with a heavy sigh that puts all of his resurfaced nerves and trepidation on display. He knows that something as simple as eye contact with his mother will likely cause all of his fears to come spilling out, so he looks down at where his foot is scuffing the ground and tries to bury them in the recesses of his mind.

In the next moment, his mother is gripping his face between her hands, tilting it up so she can get a good look at him, and Fitz finds himself stunned, not for the first time, at the unconditional love that she’s sending his way. She’s smiling softly at him, matching blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears, and Fitz struggles to keep his own at bay.

“I believe you to be a truly _great_ tennis player Leo, and I’m so proud of you darling. Always.”

She’s so sincere, as she has been since he’d started this insanity a decade and a half ago, and Fitz finds himself entirely overcome with gratitude. He gives her a tremulous smile before launching forward and enveloping her in the tightest hug he can muster, squeezing her just as hard as she squeezes him and whispering a choked, “Thanks mum,” into her sandy curls.

When he pulls away her smile is positively beaming and he can’t help but mirror it, her joy and excitement radiating off her in infectious waves and giving him a brief respite from the nerves. He gives her a chaste peck on the cheek before clambering into his convertible, scrunching his nose in mock irritation when she reaches over to squeeze his cheek before letting his face soften into one of appreciation at her, “Go get ‘em Leo.”

He shoots her a small wink, coupled with an even smaller wave, before pulling out of the drive and pointing his car towards London.

-O-

The drive from the English countryside to the London epicenter takes its usual two hours, sun shining and traffic thankfully non-existent despite the upcoming event, and Fitz can’t help but wish it had taken a bit longer to get from point A to B.

He could feel his nerves increasing with each kilometer closer to London he got and, now that he sees the familiar cityscape, the nerves have bloomed into outright panic. The seed of self-doubt that had been planted _years_ ago, seems to be a full field of weeds at this point and Fitz contemplates just turning the car around and making a break for it. But then he remembers all of the sacrifice, all of his _mother’s_ sacrifice, and the proud smile she’d given him as he’d driven away, and instead pulls into the parking lot of what will be his home for, at worst, a few days and at an unlikely _best,_ a few weeks.

He hands his keys to the valet with an appreciative nod before snatching his duffle from the passenger seat and his tennis equipment from the boot. He hoists both bags over his shoulders and makes his way towards the entrance of the hotel, keeping his head low and his negative doubts at bay. There are a few photographers out front, no doubt waiting for one of the more notable players to arrive, and Fitz bypasses them more easily than a cockroach on a city street.

It’s another stark reminder that though he _has_ the wildcard, nobody sees him as one. Nobody expects anything from the former gift from Scotland and, more importantly, nobody really cares.

Fitz makes his way through the hotel lobby with his eyes focused on his feet and queues up behind a family that looks as though they could buy the place ten times over. He sees fur coats ( _it’s bloody June for god’s sake_!) and a number of luggage bags with the LV insignia that a former girlfriend had made _sure_ to educate him on during their fleeting time together. The matriarch sounds as haughty as she looks and Fitz feels a bit bad for whatever employee is having to deal with such an enormous list of complaints coming from a guest who has yet to even check-in.

The group finally disperses and Fitz shuffles up after four bellhops come to lug the family’s luggage to their _penthouse,_ greeting the young woman behind the desk with a smile that she returns with a weary look of relief. They’re both silent for a few long moments before Fitz realizes why the woman’s staring at him and he shakes head and mumbles, “Hullo just… y’know. Checking in.”

He feels his cheeks redden at his utter buffoonery and lets out a relieved breath when, instead of looking at him as though he’s an idiot, the woman behind the desk just gives him a warm smile and says, “Of course sir. Name?”

“Fitz, uh, Leo Fitz.”

It’s silent for a few moments save for the clacking of the keyboard as the woman searches for his reservation and Fitz experiences the brief flicker of panic that no reservation will be found. Even after 15 years on the circuit, he only ever remembers his _first_ tournament at which the hotel had no reservation for a thirteen year-old boy named Leopold Fitz and was unwilling to give him a room until his manager or mother showed up… _the next day._ It had essentially scarred him for life and Fitz now always has the brief moment of panic that, wherever he’s meant to be staying, he won’t be anywhere in the system.

So he lets out a small sigh of relief when the woman looks up again with a smile and hands him a keycard. “Welcome to the Dorchester Mr. Fitz. Here’s the key to your suite. The lifts are to your right. You’ll be in room 21-12.”

He takes the key from her with a nod of thanks and takes two steps before he processes what it is she’d said and doubles back. “Hang on, _suite_? Are you sure? I think you might have made a mist…”

He’s cut off by the hotel clerk’s, “Ma’am, how can I help you?” and is pushed aside by the next person in the queue before he can further question what type of room he’ll be in. Not wanting to queue up again, he adjusts his bags and makes his way to the lifts, grateful that he manages to snag one to himself and won’t have to push himself into a corner in a poor attempt at making room for others. He watches the lighted number tick up until the lift comes to a stop with a ding as the doors open and the sight of a posh hallway greets Fitz.

His eyes widen slightly at the sight, mainly because he’s stayed at the Dorchester before and can’t remember _ever_ staying on a floor quite this fancy- hell, he didn’t even know floors could _get_ this fancy.

_It’s like a completely different building!_

The lift doors begin to close so Fitz hastily squeezes his way out of the small metal box and into the posh hall, tucking his bags as close to his body as possible for fear of bumping into the various vases of flowers that are resting on the stylish tables that line the walls. He makes his way down the hallway, eyes tracking the numbers on the doors before pulling up to 21-12 and holding his breath as he inserts the keycard into the slot before him.

_Please work, please work._

The small light flashes green and he releases the breath he’d been holding at the telltale click of the door unlocking. Pushing the handle down and the door forward, Fitz steps into the room, mouth dropping with each shuffle of his feet as he stares in awe at the almost palatial suite that he’s been put up in. The furniture alone probably costs more than all of his assets combined and the large expanse of the _living room_ is bigger than most London flats. There’s nearly half a dozen doors around the room, meaning there’s half a dozen _other rooms_ attached to this one and Fitz can’t quite believe that this is meant for him.

His eyes flicker around and take in all of the lavish things that he _knows_ should cost more than the £400 a night rate he’s splitting with the LTA on it. The throw pillows alone would probably warrant at _least_ £3k per night. He walks further into the suite, marveling at the various accouterments that _really_ don’t need to be in a hotel room, and is just about to toss his bags on the ground when a muffled sound catches his ear.

He pauses his movements, closing his eyes and listening intently to see if he’s simply imagining things, but when the sound continues he shifts his head in an attempt to make out where it’s coming from. It grows louder with each step he takes and Fitz finally finds himself standing outside a partially open door.

_Hmmmm._

He furrows his brows and decides to just follow the noise with a shrug, pushing open the door and promptly letting out an undignified shriek at the sight of _Jemma bloody Simmons,_ naked as the day she was born, standing beneath the spray of a shower head and staring at him with wide eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty sure the Dorchester only has, like, 10 floors but in this fictional world it has at least 21. See ya Monday!


	4. I'm an Ass (Yours is Nice)

Fitz stares at the sight in front of him for a solid half minute before he actually _realizes_ he’s staring (certainly not _ogling_ and _definitely_ not trying to make out more details of the figure slightly obscured by the opaque glass of the shower enclosure) and snaps his gaze back up to the face of one _Jemma Simmons_.

She’s looking at him with an arched brow and an amused smile, making it pretty clear that she knows that _maybe_ he actually _was_ ogling a teeny tiny bit.

He lets out a pitiful whimper that he _hopes_ can’t be heard over the still-running shower the moment he catches her gaze and feels his cheeks burn a bright red in embarrassment. It’s an odd feeling having one’s blood simultaneously rushing both north and south and Fitz shifts his tennis bag down slightly so as not to make an even _bigger_ ass of himself.

_Ass._

_Oh god. He’s just walked in on Jemma Simmons. Showering. Naked. Oh Christ._

Fitz quickly throws his free hand over his eyes, running through old tennis statistics in his mind in an attempt to keep his thoughts, and more traitorous body parts, in check. _Then_ he realizes that, now he’s essentially just an idiot with his mouth open, eyes covered, _and still very much not where he’s supposed to be,_ so he pivots as best he can, bags smacking into walls, and moves to hastily leave the room.

Of course, exiting a room whilst knowing that Jemma Simmons is naked behind you is easier said than done.

Add a complete and utter lack of sight and it’s damn near impossible… which Fitz figures out almost immediately.

His awkward spinning, coupled with an unbalanced forward momentum, sends him careening slightly towards where he _thinks_ the doorway is. Luckily his blind guess of the exit of the room was correct but _unluckily_ (and wholly unsurprising since apparently today is one meant to cause him as much embarrassment as possible) one or both of his bags gets caught on something that all but pins him in place.

“Bloody… stupid ruddy bags…”

Fitz does his best to blindly release whatever strap got caught on the doorknob, not fully noticing the sound of the shower turning off, tugging and yanking haphazardly with one hand while valiantly keeping the other firmly affixed over his eyes. He mutters low curses under his breath with each eternity-like second that passes and wonders if it might just be better to drop his belongings and run.

_The clothes he can live without but the racquets… They’re bloody expensive Babolats and it’s Wmbledon… so he likely will need them… On the other hand…_

Fitz loosens his grip slightly as his mind runs through the pros and cons, pitting necessity against embarrassment, before he tightens his hands and just starts yanking the straps in desperation.

_Must look like a complete and utter nutter._

The thought causes a pitiful groan to escape him and Fitz can’t help but think that this is yet another sign that he has no place here. Not in this suite, not in this hotel, and certainly not at Wimbledon.

“What the fuck am I doing here…”

“I was wondering the same thing actually.”

The soft voice coming directly from his left causes Fitz to jump in surprise and release another of what’s apparently becoming his standard high-pitched yelps. His jerky movements come to an abrupt halt when he feels a warm hand on his forearm for the most fleeting of moments before it shifts and literally pries his fingers from where they’ve still got a death grip on his bag straps. He’s not sure what to do with his now-free hand so he just moves it to join its brother where it’s still firmly pressed over his eyes.

He hears and feels the movement of the straps, shifting left and right and clearly being untangled from whatever they’d gotten roped around, but keeps his eyes squeezed firmly shut, and his hands in place _over_ them should they become _loosely_ shut, until he hears a triumphant, “There. Should be proper now.”

Fitz can feel how tense his body is, shoulders near his ears and arms straining against his shirt to keep his fingers over his eyes, and sucks in a sharp breath when he feels the same warm hand pat his cheek lightly to get his attention. His hands are still fixed over his face when he moves his head towards the direction the soft voice had come from. He _knows_ he looks like an idiot, something that’s confirmed by the short laugh that comes from in front of him.

“You can open your eyes you know, I’ve got a very nice hotel robe on...”

Fitz can hear the amusement in her voice and it causes a flush to work its way across his face. He almost declines her offer, thinking that it’s likely in his best interest to simply crawl his way out of here at this point, before ultimately deciding that after his _first_ failed attempt at making a break for it without the use of his eyes, doing as Jemma suggests is the better option.

Still, he takes his time opening his eyes, slowly adjusting his fingers so he can peek through them and confirm that Jemma Simmons is as clothed as she says she is.

She _is_ and a small part of him feels a bit disappointed that she’d been telling him the truth. When he catches sight of the silk robe tied tightly around her waist, he removes his hands from his face and moves them to rub nervously at his neck.

“…besides it’s not like you haven’t seen everything already, right?”

She shoots him a grin that has Fitz choking on air in an attempt to apologize as soon as possible. “I’m… I’m _so_ sorry. I just… they said I was in room 21-12 and I should have _known_ this wasn’t meant for me but the key worked so I just… I thought I was in 21-12.”

Jemma laughs again (in the _at_ not _with_ kind of way) and the sound immediately shuts Fitz up. He glances nervously at her and watches as she tilts her head, grin still firmly affixed on her face, and says, “Oh you’re _definitely_ in 21-12… _my_ 21-12.”

Her eyebrow arches a bit at this and Fitz is nodding his head in understanding, trying to focus on her words instead of the way her crossed arms are pulling the hotel robe tightly against her. The thin silk is giving him a _far_ better glimpse of her body than the glass shower had and he guiltily shifts his eyes towards a nameless point above Jemma’s shoulder. She gives another amused snort at his rather pathetic attempt at chivalry and Fitz feels his ears redden as he turns his eyes back to Jemma and keeps them from straying.

It’s another failed attempt because he gets distracted by the way her fingers are tapping where her hands are resting along her bicep.

_Wonder if they’re really insured for a million pounds apiece._

Fitz tilts his head at the thought, eyes flitting between the hands of the World #1 as he tries to figure out how likely it is that the Daily Mail article claiming their worth actually had any credit. He’s pulled from his musings by a short cough and Fitz’s eyes snap back to where Jemma Simmons is still staring at him questioningly- the unspoken, “ _Well?_ ” ringing out in the silence.

“Right. Again… _so_ sorry about this. I wouldn’t… I’d _never…_ I’m sorry. I’m just gonna…” He gestures behind him before spinning on his heel and making his way back to the suite’s exit, quickening his pace when he hears a softer set of steps following him.

_Probably making sure the bloody perv actually leaves._

“Goodbye!”

He raises a hand as he turns his head to meet the smiling Simmons and nods his head before saying, “Yeah, good body!”

Fitz comes to a screeching halt as he process the fact that he _did_ just say that, eyes widening at his slip of the tongue and hand moving to cover his mouth in horror. He shifts slightly and sees Jemma covering her _own_ mouth in an attempt to muffle her laughter and feels his entire body erupt in flames at the total shit show that has been this interaction.

“Fuck… I meant… I meant good _bye_ ! Not… I didn’t mean… _fuck.”_

Apparently his stuttered curses are enough to cause Jemma to give up all pretenses of reeling in her amusement because she bursts into laughter, leaning against the wall behind her and seemingly struggling to hold herself up. Fitz covers his face once more with his hands and mumbles a muffled, “I’ll just umm… I’ll be going now,” before reaching for the nearest door, moving through it, and walking…

…into the goddam kitchen.

_Oh for Pete’s sake._

He closes his eyes with a sigh, turning back around and taking a breath before pushing open the door he’d _just_ walked through and awkwardly re-entering the main room.

When he steps back out with his head hanging in embarrassment, Fitz glances up just long enough to see Jemma still leaning against the opposite wall, biting her lip in amusement and pointing towards another door in the large room. He feels his cheeks pinken once again and gives her a short nod before making his way to the indicated exit and praying that he’ll escape this hell without humiliating himself any more than he already has.

Luckily he manages to stumble his way into the hallway, waiting until he hears the door shut behind him before releasing an aggravated, “ _Fuck!”_

He swears he hears muffled laughter as he makes his way towards the lift.

-O-

“Oh my apologies Mr. Fitz, you’re in room 12-21, not 21-12. I’m so sorry for any inconvenience.”

_Oh no problem, just made a complete arse of myself in front of the most famous woman in sports who also happens to be the most beautiful woman in the world according to Maxim._

_No inconvenience at all._

Fitz lets out a small sigh as he rubs his hand along his neck and takes the key card from the admittedly _genuinely_ apologetic desk clerk. “S’alright. Thank you.”

He makes his way back towards the lift, groaning slightly at the number of people already crammed into it, and releases a few soft apologies as he squeezes himself and his bags into the small space still available. He catches sight of a few glowers but doesn’t have the energy to deal with them so he just ducks his head and counts down the floors until his own. He thankfully manages to shuffle out of the remaining crowd without whacking anyone along the way and moves down the hall in exhaustion, stopping outside of what he _hopes_ is his room and shoving the key in the slot with little fanfare.

The door unlocks with that familiar click and Fitz pushes it open, immediately met with the sight of a room that is essentially the opposite of the one he’d had the briefest taste of. The bed takes up roughly 80% of the small room, with _just_ enough space for the accompanying desk, mini fridge, and TV stand that are shoved along the opposite wall.

“Yup. This is more like it.”

Fitz tosses his bags unceremoniously on the floor before collapsing onto the bed with a low groan that grows louder as he replays his day.

“Fucking hell.”


	5. Can-Can

The next morning, Fitz awakens with a pounding headache and a distinct feeling that he’ll never be able to look at Jemma Simmons again without feeling an overwhelming amount of embarrassment.

Of course, this means she’s the first face he sees when he turns on the television and begins getting dressed for the day.

He pauses while putting on his practice gear to watch in awe as the mischievous and giggly woman he’d met yesterday fields reporters’ questions with a detachment that makes her seem more like a robot than an actual person. At one point a reporter calls her out on it, questioning why she’s never quite as bubbly and excited to do interviews as her competitors, and Fitz can’t help but smile at the small eye roll she gives in response.

“I’m not here to answer questions, I’m here to win Wimbledon.”

Her words cause the smile to leave Fitz’s face as it reminds him of why  _ he’s  _ here: to hopefully not  _ lose  _ Wimbledon in the first round.

He feels his stomach churn at the reminder and quickly turns off the television, glancing at his watch and grabbing his things before shooting off a quick text to his practice partner telling him to meet him downstairs for breakfast. When he walks up to the dining room, he sees Trip’s hulking figure ladling a mountain of fruit onto a plate and Fitz can’t help but grin at the sight. It’s only been a month since he’s seen the other man but since they first paired up together so many years ago, Fitz has found that Trip is really the only one who can keep him calm when he begins to get too wrapped up in his own head.

He moves to the buffet table and claps Trip on the back, grinning when the other man jumps and drops the spoon he’d been using to scoop fruit onto his plate.

“Aww c’mon man!”

Fitz laughs at the heartbroken look on Trip’s face as he watches a strawberry land on the floor and moves to get his own plate, piling on bacon, eggs, and all of the delicious pastries that Trip has stayed clear of. “How was Palm Springs?”

Trip just shrugs and waves his hand dismissively at Fitz’s question, making it pretty clear that Palm Springs didn’t go all that well, so he just continues selecting the worst foods (it’s not like starting a healthy diet now will help much). They make their way to a small table, saying hello to the other players they recognize, before tucking into their meal and catching up on the admittedly little they’ve missed.

They carpool over to the grounds with some doubles players that Fitz vaguely knows and Trip seems to be best chums with. It’s a quick trip but Fitz still manages to clamber out of the car with a slight headache. The group follows an even larger one into the locker room and Fitz feels his mouth tick upwards at the familiar sight of Phil Coulson handing out towels and locker numbers with a genuine smile permanently in place.

It’s wholly unprofessional but Fitz has known Coulson since he was a scared 13-year-old playing in his first tennis match, so he doesn’t hesitate to envelop the older man in a hug when the players in front of him clear out. “You’re so  _ old!” _

Coulson lets out a chuff of laughter pulling away before giving Fitz an affronted look. “ _ I’m  _ old? You’re pushing thirty Fitz. You’ll probably end up retiring before even me!”

Fitz’s smile drops slightly at Coulson’s teasing and ducks his head at the knowing look that Trip shoots him while grabbing a fresh towel. He glances back at Coulson and feels the same surge of guilt that he experienced when he’d told his mother about his plan to make Wimbledon his final tournament. Trip nudges him on his way into the locker room and Fitz releases a soft sigh before saying, “True. Unless you retire before the tournament’s up… I  _ will  _ be out before you.”

He expects Coulson’s eyes to widen in shock but instead the older man just peers at him quizzically before nodding his head. Fitz feels an exhaustion seep into his bones at Phil’s reaction and realizes that, perhaps more than anyone,  _ he  _ understands what a toll this life has taken. Fitz gives the older man an appreciative smile as Coulson hands him a towel with a pat on the back.

“Make it count then.”

Fitz nods his head seriously before working his way into the locker room and giving the obligatory hellos to all of the colleagues he’s known for years. He and Trip eventually break away after being given their practice court and Fitz lets himself get lost in the idle chatter and easy rallies. The entire morning is spent this way, hitting ball after ball and running after all of the ones Trip hits back. When they break for lunch, Fitz is dripping with sweat and Trip is laughing and telling him that maybe he  _ should  _ have attempted a healthy diet.

The comment earns a glower from Fitz that causes Trip to burst into a remorseless bout of laughter. It’s annoying enough that when his friend offers to practice some more, Fitz waves him off and tells him he’s already booked an hour to himself for some serve work. Anyone else might have at least feigned hurt at the dismissal, but Trip just claps Fitz on the back and tells him which restaurant they should go to for dinner.

-O-

By the time Fitz makes his way back to the lawn, the practice court he’d reserved is already devoid of whoever had it the hour prior and he doesn’t hesitate to begin his warm-up stretches, not wanting to waste a precious second of what little time he has… both today and in general.

_ Might not get a chance to hit on these courts at all after his first match. _

It’s a sobering thought and he kind of wishes he  _ had  _ let Trip hang around to keep him company, if only to keep his mind from wandering down its usual path of self-doubt and destruction. He observes the players on the practice courts beside his, letting the steady thwack of their tennis balls lull him into a foggy state where all he can focus on is his routine and none of the what ifs that may follow.

Fitz spends a good half hour hitting against a machine, forehand, backhand, forehand, volley. It’s the same pattern, wholly inefficient in terms of preparing to face off against another person, but the repetition of it all is soothing to him and, honestly, his groundstrokes _could_ use a little work. Though, his serves have always been his weakness so, once the small FitBit on his wrist buzzes to mark the halfway point of his practice time, Fitz unplugs his mechanical opponent and collects the empty cans that he’d brought along with him.

He carefully sets up the ten cans at various points in the service box, a few on the line and the rest scattered in no-man’s land, before cricking his neck and working his way to the other side of the court.

The sun beats down from behind him so he can’t use the, “light was in my eyes,” excuse when he tosses a ball into the air and hits it directly into the net. Fitz watches as the ball rolls slowly back in his direction and feels that familiar churning of nerves as he takes a breath and flexes his fingers before adjusting his grip and tossing up ball number two.

It at least goes over the net but Fitz lets out a grunt of frustration as the ball lands directly between two of the cans before continuing its trajectory and coming to a stop at the back fence.

Each ball he tosses and hits gets closer and closer to whichever can Fitz is aiming for and it only takes another dozen serves before he’s grazing the cans and watching them wobble precariously. After the tenth  _ almost  _ knocking over of a can, Fitz expels an irritated breath and snatches a ball from the crate beside him. His eyes focus on the can that’s been taunting him for the past few serves and he mentally calculates the necessary height required of his toss to get the optimal topspin. Once he thinks he’s finally managed to find the perfect toss-wrist flick-spin combo, Fitz sets himself up behind the baseline and lets the ball fall from his fingers onto the grass below.

He bounces the ball twice and is just about to toss it in the air when he hears a loud smack behind him and watches one of his carefully arranged cans go flying as a neon ball crashes into it.

Considering  _ his  _ ball is now rolling away from him after he dropped it in shock, Fitz deduces that someone else has apparently decided to practice their serves as well. He whips around with his mouth open and feels it drop even lower at the sight of Jemma Simmons twirling her racquet and walking towards him with a smirk.

Her tennis skirt seems to be showing more skin than what he’d seen in the shower and Fitz immediately blushes at the memory, keeping his eyes neck high and trying not to squirm too much when she sashays to a stop in front of him with that same mischievous grin that kept him up last night.

“Jemma Simmons.”

He almost rolls his eyes at her introduction. Everyone and their mother (his included, bless her) knows who Jemma Simmons is and for a brief moment he assumes that she’s having a laugh at him. But then he glances down at her outstretched hand, looks back up at her face, and realizes that whatever amusement is hidden behind her smile has nothing to do with her knowing that he’s already well aware of who she is.

Fitz shifts his racquet to his left hand before loosely grasping Jemma’s within his own and giving her a wry grin that he  _ hopes  _ might distract from his rosy cheeks. “Yeah I… I know who you are. What with the billboards and adverts and being the top player in the world and everything.”

Jemma drops his hand with a melodic laugh that Fitz feels a bit stupid for thinking of as  _ melodic  _ and quirks an eyebrow at him with the smile he knows means trouble. She tilts her head for a moment, biting her lip in mirth and letting her eyes rove over him in a way that makes Fitz want to squirm. When her gaze meets his again, Jemma lets the smile she’s been fighting break across her.

“Right. Yes of course. Although… at this point I think you’ve probably seen more of me than even those adverts have the luxury of showing.”

Fitz groans at her words and covers his face in his hands just as Jemma throws her head back in delighted laughter. Evidently she takes great pleasure in reminding him of what a complete and utter idiot he’d been the day before because he hears her choke out, “good body,” in between giggles. Fitz doesn’t even try and attempt to throw in another apology, instead deciding to wait Jemma out and resigning himself to the fact that his face will be red for the rest of his life.

After a solid minute, Jemma’s giggling subsides and she gives him a beaming grin that Fitz would  _ swear  _ actually looks a bit apologetic. She peers up at him for a few long moments before tilting her head and taking a step closer. “So, we’ve established that: I’m Jemma Simmons, you  _ know _ I’m Jemma Simmons, and you are…?”

Fitz’s eyes widen slightly at the question before realizing that, for as much as he knows about Jemma, she seems to know nothing about him. The narcissist in him is admittedly a little bummed that she has no clue who he is, but the larger part of him, the part whose heart is hammering at the way her smile seems to soften as she awaits his answer, is more interested in not doing anything else to embarrass himself.

“I’m… Umm… Fitz, Leo Fitz.”

He moves his hand back to his neck, rubbing at it nervously as Jemma’s smile widens. “Nice to properly meet you Fitz, Leo Fitz.”

He doesn’t love the way Jemma’s turned him into a bumbling idiot with a schoolboy crush in less than a minute so he straightens up and shoots her a cocky grin, nodding his head towards the cans on the other side, and says, “Ten quid says you can’t do that again.”

Jemma’s eyes light up at the challenge and she doesn’t hesitate to brush past him, shoving him lightly so she can set herself up at the base line. Fitz watches in awe as Jemma bounces the ball once before tossing it into the air and smacking it to the other side of the court with an effortless flick of the wrist. He doesn’t need to take his eyes off her to know that he’s just grown 10 quid poorer. The crunch of aluminum is audible enough and Fitz finds that he far prefers cataloguing Jemma’s newest smile to watching a can meet a fate as grisly as being on the receiving end of a Simmons serve.

She looks at him over her shoulder with a cocky grin and an arched eyebrow and Fitz can’t help but mirror the expression when she says, “Bet you ten  _ bucks  _ that you can’t hit two in a row.”

He laughs at her challenge, moving next to her on the baseline and glancing over at her with a smile. “Someone’s been in America too long. I only accept pounds. But if you  _ really  _ want, you can write me a check when I hit the one in the deep left followed by the lone one straddling the line.”

“Oh  _ really.  _ Now we’re calling our shots? Okay hot stuff, let’s see it.”

Fitz feels himself flush at  _ hot stuff  _ but relishes the way Jemma’s challenge seems to reignite the competitive side of him that he hasn’t tapped into in quite some time. It’s like a burst of adrenaline, bouncing the ball in front of him and watching his racquet arc through the air as he whacks it out of the sky. He watches in excitement as the first can goes flying and feels something rush through him as he sets up to take care of the second. He can see Jemma standing with her arms crossed in his peripheral vision but it’s not enough to distract him from his desire to win this bet.

When the second can goes flying, Fitz turns to Jemma in triumph and grins when her eyes narrow slightly at his cockiness. Her façade doesn’t last long though because in the next second, she’s shrugging with a smile and saying, “You’re exceeding my expectations.”

Fitz chuffs out a laugh at this, suddenly emboldened by his  _ successful  _ attempt at showing off, and takes a step forward so that he’s crowding Jemma’s personal space. He ducks his head down until they’re eye to eye and grins as he says, “I’ll buy you fish and chips if you can knock the next one over with some slice.”

Jemma extends a hand and Fitz doesn’t hesitate to drop a tennis ball into it. She goes through a routine he’s watch a dozen times on the telly: bouncing, tossing, and thwacking the ball in a perfect execution of a slice serve. Unsurprisingly, the can doesn’t stand a chance and Fitz watches with a smile as it shoots through the air. His smile widens when Jemma turns back to him with a cheeky, “Don’t forget the tartar sauce.”

He’s about to pretend to be scandalized that she could  _ ever  _ think he would buy someone fish and chips  _ without  _ including tartar sauce, but a voice rings out before he gets the chance.

“Jemma! What are you doing? You have an interview in ten minutes.”

Fitz turns towards the sound of the voice and finds himself looking up at Melinda May herself, staring down at them from where she’s perched by the clubhouse on the other side of the fence. He’s only seen her once in person before, back when he was still a kid and intimidated by everything, but Fitz finds that, even at 28, he’s  _ still  _ intimidated by the woman staring at him as though he’s a particularly awful bug.

Jemma waves her hand dismissively in the older woman’s direction, sighing in exasperation before calling out, “Coming May! Just one more serve.”

Fitz can just barely make out May’s imperceptible nod before the other woman is blatantly tapping her watch and walking away. He turns back to Jemma with raised eyebrows and an admittedly terrified expression but Simmons just nods her head in the direction of the cans and motions for him to get on with it. He shrugs slightly before grabbing another ball and bouncing it in preparation to keep their streak going.

“If you hit this one…” Fitz tosses the ball in the air as Jemma begins speaking but finds himself completely distracted when she finishes with “…I’ll sleep with you.”

The breath whooshes from his lungs as he flails his arm wildly in the hopes that he’ll make contact with the ball before it hits the ground. He watches dazedly as the ball ricochets off the racquet and lands two courts down, just barely hearing Jemma’s sigh of disappointment over the roaring of his own blood in his ears. He turns around to gape at her in astonishment, mouth dropping even further when she steps closer to him and pats his sweaty chest with a sympathetic smile.

“Too bad. You could have used the workout.”

She walks off the court towards May and Fitz watches her go, wondering just what kind of  _ workout  _ he’s missed out on.


	6. Round One

The next morning, Fitz finds himself watching with bated breath as Jemma Simmons kicks off Wimbledon with one of the first matches of the tournament. He doesn’t actually _have_ to hold his breath though, because Jemma breezes through the match in two sets, barely giving her opponent a point let alone a _game._ The match is over before Fitz can even get himself over to the courts to watch in person, so he instead spends the 50 minutes it takes Jemma to make it through the first round sitting on his bed and eating one of the god-awful nutrition bars that Trip had given him the day before.

All in all, it’s not a bad morning and it keeps him distracted _just_ long enough to stave off the panic until he actually makes it over to the greens. It’s as though merely being in the _presence_ of the courts is a trigger for his nerves, because he feels them trickle their way through his body as he and Trip putter around the grounds and check out whatever matches are being played.

All he sees while they meander from court to court are the faces of people who might be the one to end his career. Not that _they’d_ be ending it per se, it is in fact _he_ who’d decided that this would be his last tournament, but that doesn’t mean that Fitz can see anyone other than the nameless opponent that will end his time at Wimbledon _and_ his time as a professional tennis player.

With each passing second the churning in his stomach seems to grow more pronounced, leaving Fitz with the distinct impression that one errant thought will likely leave him puking in the nearest waste bin.

By noon, he can’t tell if he’s _glad_ that he won’t be playing until tomorrow or upset that he’s been given an entire extra day to think of his inevitable loss.

He knows that most of the other players in his position are reveling in the extra few hours provided to practice or relax, depending on which method of approaching a slam they tend to follow, but since _Fitz_ is of the group that doesn’t believe in over-exerting one’s self prior to a match, it means he’s been given ample time to do the one thing he does better than return a forehand groundstroke: worry.

The worry only grows when he and Trip work their way to one of the players’ lounges, the big one that doubles as the players’ restaurant slash _bar,_ and he catches sight of all of the other coaches, sponsors, and _opponents_ milling about. Fitz hears talk of statistics, recent injuries, player weaknesses, and feels his heart begin to hammer in his chest at the realization that, for one reason or another, he hadn’t thought of _any_ of that stuff this go around.

Which is an absolute, bloody, pity because that’s usually his favorite bit. He quite enjoys looking at statistics and coming up with the probabilities that certain situations will happen because it’s the only time he really gets a chance to follow, albeit _briefly,_ the intellectual path he would have headed down were it not for tennis.

And in the weeks leading up to Wimbledon, Fitz had been so focused on working himself on the court to a point where he could give the best performance he can muster, that he hadn’t done his usual _off court_ routine of analyzing opponents and noting any weaknesses or opportunities.

He follows Trip silently to their table, doing his best to drown out the chatter in the clubhouse, and all but collapses into a chair across from his _far_ more relaxed friend. Before Fitz can even pick up a menu Trip is nudging him and subtly nodding at something behind his head. Fitz furrows his brows slightly as he does his best to covertly twist in his chair and look at whatever it is that Trip is trying to draw his attention to.

He assumes that whatever it is will be rather apparent but, unfortunately, Fitz is just met with the sight of other diners eating and various people ambling their way to the balcony to watch the matches taking place on the side courts.

He tilts his head slightly, just enough to make certain that Trip can actually hear him when he asks, “What am I looking at?”

“Two o’clock. See the kid barely out of high school playing that video game?”

Fitz glances around the room for a moment before zeroing in on the person Trip described. The bloke _does_ look like he’s just barely in his twenties, cap backwards on his head and headphones firmly placed in his ears, and Fitz wonders why Trip felt the need to point him out.

“Yeah…”

“That’s your round one.”

The comment makes him turn around in surprise to face Trip who’s just nodding with a raised eyebrow. Fitz twists around in his chair again to get a better look at whom he _now_ knows is his first (and possibly _only)_ Wimbledon opponent, taking in the general youthfulness and wondering what kind of stamina someone that young probably has.

The thought causes him to groan, every phantom injury suddenly flaring to life while every hamburger he’d eaten in place of a salad weighs him down with all the delicious fat. He has the inexplicable urge to bang his head against the nearest hard surface but doesn’t think the table he’s sitting at while provide an adequate enough bruise. Instead he just lets out another low groan and looks at Trip incredulously.

“Bloody hell. Is he even out of nappies yet?”

Trip lets out a chuff of laughter at this and shoots him an easy grin that would _normally_ calm Fitz down a bit but today just can’t seem to break through the nerves.

“Barely. But he’s good Fitz. I played him a few months ago at Rock Creek.”

“And he put up a good fight but ultimately lost to my dear practice partner whom I’m fairly evenly matched with?”

The moment the words leave his mouth, Fitz knows that they’re not accurate descriptors of what happened because Trip shoots him a sympathetic look that he couples with a slow shake of the head.

“Nope. Played a full five sets and the little bastard beat me in the tie break.”

 _This_ is enough to cause Fitz to drop his head to the table with a resounding thud and a murmured, “God damn it.”

-O-

It’s another sleepless night and by the time the hotel phone at his bedside begins ringing with his wake-up call, Fitz has already gone through every possible scenario of the looming match.

Well… not _every_ scenario.

Just the ones where he loses in the most embarrassing and crushing ways possible. His mind never wanders to play out the scenarios in which he might have a possibility of actually _winning_ and instead just seems to play a constant stream of losses on loop. There’s one particularly horrible one where he splits his shorts trying to return a shot during match point and, not for the first time, Fitz wonders why his own mind seems to be relentless in conjuring images that bring him to the verge of complete and utter panic.

He can’t call his mum and hear her soft words of encouragement, can’t call _Hunter_ and hear his friend joke about placing bets on every player other than him, and he can’t even call Trip to have him talk him down because his friend is likely already at the courts worrying about his _own_ match.

The nerves aren’t anything new for him but, for one reason or another, they seem roughly one hundred times worse this morning.

_Probably because it’s likely the last time he’ll have to get nervous over a match._

Fitz contemplates making his way downstairs to grab something to eat before his car arrives to take him to the courts but the roiling feeling in his stomach makes him think he might be better off with some trail mix and another one of Trip’s fiber bars. So he nervously paces within the confines of his hotel room and tosses various unflavored legumes into his mouth until it’s time to get ready and head downstairs.

He spends the majority of the car ride from the hotel to the grounds working on controlling his breathing and doing his best not to think of the various nightmares he’d had the night before. Naturally this means _all he does_ is think of said nightmares and by the time the car pulls up to the park, Fitz is dripping with cold sweats and wondering what the hell he’s doing here.

He essentially blacks out during the walk through the grounds from the car to the locker room, and doesn’t even process that he’s halfway changed into his tennis whites until Coulson is clapping him on the back with a murmured, “Ten minutes Fitz.”

He nods dazedly at the older man, gratefully accepting the towel he tosses onto his lap, and stands on shaky legs. He takes a few steadying breaths, closing his eyes and running through various equations that he’d memorized in his youth, before moving forward towards the exit. He’s almost immediately joined by one of the Wimbledon staff, likely an off-duty ball boy, and follows along as he’s led to the court he’ll be playing on.

When they reach it, the boy turns to him with a small smile and wishes him luck, to which Fitz responds with a wry, “Cheers. I’ll be needing it.”

This isn’t exactly a match that people are flocking to see, meaning it’s being played on one of the side courts where the noise from the surrounding matches can be heard clearly. Fitz actually finds it to be somewhat calming, the cheers and gasps from the surrounding courts making him less focused on what noises will come from this one.

The calm dissipates the moment he sees Nappy walk onto the court and begin stretching all of his youthful muscles. Fitz goes through the motions with his own stretches, bending and tugging his limbs until he’s satisfied he won’t pull something during the match. He grabs the practice balls provided and moves to one side of the court, taking a few serves before moving away and letting Nappy have his turn.

After the standard warm-up, Fitz makes his way to the chairs along the side of the court and hangs his head as he tries to empty his mind and await the start of the match. He barely has enough time to take a few shaky breaths before the Chair ump’s voice is blaring through the loudspeakers and announcing that the time has come.

Fitz shakily rises to his feet, keeping his hands and eyes focused on his racquet so as to avoid making eye contact _with_ anyone and seeing the doubt for him reflected in their eyes. He makes his way to the baseline, toeing the grass before crouching down and looking up, waiting for the first serve to come flying in his direction.

_Oh god. This is it. This is the end. So long Wimbledon, so long tennis, hello life as director of a bloody elderly tennis club. Christ this is going to be terrible. I’m going to get bloody crushed by a bloke that can’t even buy alcohol in the States yet. Shit, shit, shit._

_This is it._

-O-

Only… it _isn’t_.

Because two hours, three minutes, and fifty-one seconds later, Fitz is shaking his opponent’s hand with what he’s sure is a gobsmacked expression on his face. The stunned expression is still firmly affixed when he moves to shake the Chair’s hand before moving back towards the center of the court.

There’s a polite smattering of applause when he nods slightly and raises a hand, even a few whoops from some of the people who will cheer for any Brit no matter how unlikely it is they’ll leave the tournament a champion, and Fitz turns to stare at the scoreboard in shock to confirm that he’s not imagining the fact that he’d _won._

But the white numbers stand out against the dark backdrop of the board and plainly confirm that in three sets he’d managed to move on to round two of his final Wimbledon.

_Bloody hell._


	7. Press and Paps

When he walks into his obligatory post-match press conference, Fitz isn’t all that surprised to see that only a few of the journalist chairs are actually occupied. There are perhaps 6 people scattered throughout a room designed for  _ at least  _ 80 reporters and Fitz wouldn’t be shocked in the slightest if the people who’d turned up were interns, willing to take on even the worst of assignments to prove themselves, or more senior writers, being punished for one reason or another and relegated to covering the lesser players of Wimbledon.

He makes his way to the small stage and gingerly lowers himself into one of the chairs, eyes nervously flitting around the room and fingers twisting beneath the table.

It’s silent for a few awkward moments, the sound of slight shuffling the only thing heard in the generally empty room, when the only woman in the fourth row raises a hand. Fitz shoots her a grateful smile for her willingness to get the ball rolling before nodding for her to ask him the first question of the conference.

“As a player who started your tennis career so young, has it since become a bit of an odd transition becoming the older player on the court in certain matches? Today’s against Frances for example.”

Fitz blinks owlishly at her for a moment, briefly contemplating confessing to having been calling Frances, “Nappy,” since first seeing him, but decides that likely isn’t the best course of action for him. So instead quickly thinks of a response that might be appropriate  _ and  _ truthful and settles on, “Oh… well, honestly it’s not something I really spend a lot of time thinking about. I mean,  _ sometimes  _ I will but usually just in the sense that I think of my past injuries and realize that some of these guys haven’t even been playing long enough to have had  _ any  _ injuries. But, I mean, I’m 28. I’m not  _ old  _ just… older so… I mean, that’s not to say that I don’t feel like a geezer at times but… no I don’t think so. I… no.”

He gives a rather pathetic shrug of the shoulders as his closing statement and winces slightly at the almost exasperated faces that are looking back at him.

_ It’s not like I bloody well want to be here either. _

“And, as someone who’s been around for a significant amount of time, do you think Frances is a player who will have a lengthy career in professional tennis.”

Fitz’s eyes move to the new voice and realizes that he’s nodding before the question has even been finished. “Oh sure! I expect to be an answer to the Trivial Pursuit question, ‘Who beat top-ten player Joel Frances in his first Wimbledon match,’ at some point in the future.”

He tacks on a warm smile at the end, wholly sincere, and hopes that the reporters and the roughly six people who might watch this on YouTube will see that he genuinely  _ does  _ think that Frances will have a decent career in tennis.

“What Wimbledon is this for  _ you _ Fitz?”

The smile drops at the question and Fitz shifts slightly in his seat before looking towards the reporter and stuttering out, “Umm… it’s… it’s actually my twelfth.”

The unspoken, “I’ve played twelve and lost twelve,” still seems to ring out in the room and Fitz continues to twist his hands nervously under the table as he notes the raised brows and surreptitious looks. He’s seen them a million times before from a million different people but it still stings a bit to note the almost pitying disbelief he receives when admitting how long he’s been playing and how little he’s accomplished in the back half of his career.

“Bloody hell. You really have been around forever.”

The statement, stinging as it might be, is the perfect opening and Fitz leans closer to the microphone to make the announcement that he’s been preparing for awhile. “Yeah actually that’s… I suppose that’s as good a segue as any. I wanted to take this opportunity to announce…”

His statement is cut off when the doors open and the reporters in the room immediately flock to Hog Face Will Daniels when he walks through the doors with his equally hog-faced entourage.

“…my retirement…” Fitz voice tapers slightly as the cries of, “Will, Will! Over here!” begin to drown him out, effectively ensuring that nobody hears the final portion of his sentence.

“…from tennis. Effective the moment this tournament ends.”

Nobody so much as glances his way, instead focusing on Daniels, the gargantuan oaf, and all Fitz hears is, “Winning Wimbledon will let you break the tie and edge out Grant Ward for the sole title of world number 1! How motivated does that make you?”

Fitz moves closer to the microphone and quietly murmurs, “That’s my retirement from tennis,” before standing up and walking unnoticed out of the press conference.

Trip is leaning against the doorway with a sympathetic smile and, though Fitz does his best to avoid it, ruffles his hair affectionately once he’s in reaching distance.

“It was a good announcement.”

Fitz just shrugs his shoulders and hums in response, hoping that his outwardly noncommittal air might hide his disappointment over what a spectacular failure that announcement really was.

“I really liked the, ‘effective the moment this tournament ends,’ part. Made it sound like a presidential statement.”

Fitz can’t fight the grin at this and shoves Trip playfully as they make their way to the locker room and get ready to head out. “Oh shut it.”

-O-

When he arrives back at the hotel, there’s a hoard of paparazzi outside the entrance and Fitz mostly ignores them as he clambers out of the car (unsurprisingly they ignore him right back) until he hears what it is they’re shouting.

“Jemma! Jemma! Over here Jemma!”

Fitz glances over at the flashing lights and just  _ barely  _ catches sight of Jemma’s signature ponytail weaving its way through the throng of fans and photographers with practiced ease. He  _ also  _ catches sight of a stony-faced May and isn’t all that surprised that neither she nor her protégé stop to take questions. He’s  _ also  _ unsurprised when he spots Jemma pause just before entering the hotel before turning around, making her way back to a young girl, and signing a tennis ball with a warm smile.

Fitz grins at the image for a brief moment before it’s ruined by a pap who’s shout of, “Looks like the ice queen is thawing a bit,” can be heard over everything else. Fitz isn’t sure anyone else notices the way Jemma’s shoulders seem to tense momentarily at the words because in the next instant she’s giving the young fan one more smile and turning on her heel into the hotel.

When the doors close behind her, there’s the briefest moment of silence before another car pulls up and the journalists (if you can truly call them that) are flocking to the next moderately famous person to arrive. When Fitz hears the shouts of, “Will, Will! Over here! How confident are you that you’ll leave Wimbledon with another Grand Slam Title?” he rolls his eyes and turns to the poor driver who’s  _ still  _ waiting for him to get his bag from the boot with an apologetic expression.

Fitz blanches at the sight of Daniels and ducks past the crowd, pausing for a brief moment to murmur, “She’s pretty great, huh?” to the young girl who’s staring in awe at the neon tennis ball in her hand. She looks up at him, nodding her head with her mouth open and eyes alight, and Fitz grins before moving away.

“Mr. Fitz?”

The small voice causes him to stop in his tracks and he turns to the young girl in surprise. His shock grows even more when she timidly extends her hand, offering him a Sharpie, and shyly asks, “Would… would you sign it as well?”

His eyes flit between the Sharpie, the tennis ball, and the nervous expression on the girl’s face before he manages to stutter out, “Oh… umm… yeah! Sure!” He crouches down with a grin and takes the proffered marker from her fingers, twisting the ball in his hand and trying to find a good place to sign it that won’t detract from the far more impressive scrawl of Simmons.

Just as he’s about to put pen to Penn, he glances at the girl with a raised eyebrow and asks, “Are… are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait for Daniels? He’s the next Wimbledon champ after all.”

He gestures vaguely behind him at the commotion (apparently Hog face and his manager aren’t like Jemma and May and are  _ more  _ than happy to pause for video bites) and does his best not to roll his eyes in case the girl in front of him actually  _ would  _ prefer waiting for the other man. He’s pleasantly surprised when, instead, she just shakes her head, leans in, and says. “I don’t think he’ll win.”

Fitz can’t stop the laugh from bubbling out of him and gives the girl a beaming grin before ducking his head and finally begins the surprisingly difficult task of legibly scribbling his name on the tennis ball.

“Oh you think someone else’ll take it?” He can see her begin to nod her head in his peripheral vision and smiles at her enthusiasm.

“I think a Brit will win.”

Fitz nods along at that, sticking out his tongue slightly as he begins working on his last name, humming in agreement. “Watson? Yeah that’s a solid bet.”

“No, not Watson.”

The soft response startles him and, when Fitz looks back up at the girl, she’s giving him a warm smile that makes it very clear that she’s aware of the fact that the only other male Brit in the tournament is  _ him.  _ The implication of her words very nearly brings tears to his eyes and Fitz is a bit embarrassed by how much he’s impacted by a single person having faith in him. He’s fairly certain that breaking down in tears is likely the one thing that  _ would  _ get the paparazzi to notice him (also would likely cause the sweet girl to go running for her parents) so instead Fitz gives her a beaming smile and returns her ball and Sharpie.

“What’s your name?”

“Margaret. Margaret Taylor. My mum wanted to name me after Peggy Carter.”

_ Apparently this girl’s family really does have a penchant for British tennis players. _

“Lucky. I got stuck with Leopold because my dad lost a bet. True story!”

The peals of laughter that leave Margaret’s mouth cause Fitz to grin and exchange a look with the older man behind her who he now realizes is likely the young girl’s father. He stands up, smile still in place, and watches as the girl gives him a fond wave and turns to excitedly show her father the tennis ball that she’s clutching like a lifeline.

Fitz remembers when such a thing excited  _ him  _ and only lets father and daughter get a few steps before he calls out.

“Hey Margaret!”

She turns around with that same warm smile from before and Fitz is spurred on by the sight. “Whether  _ this  _ Brit makes it to the finals or not, should you or your family ever want to stop by Wimbledon… you’ll be on the list okay? Any round I make it to. Just go to will call and say your name.”

While it is a bit funny to see the  _ father’s  _ mouth drop further than his daughter’s, Fitz focuses on the way that Margaret is suddenly staring at him with an awestruck expression that makes him feel a bit like one of those One Deception blokes that young girls seem to think so highly of.

“Really?!”

Fitz grins at the combined excitement and doubt in her voice and nods his head immediately so she knows he’s not messing around. “Yeah. Who knows, maybe you’ll be my good luck charm.”

He’s a bit startled when she barrels into him, wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug, and squeals out a few dozen thank you’s as he awkwardly pats her head and looks at her father to make sure he’s not doing anything wrong. When she pulls away Fitz’s eyes widen at the sight of tears on the young girl’s face and worriedly looks to her father  _ again  _ in case he really  _ has  _ done something wrong now. But then Margaret gives him another smile, a tad shakier than before but just as genuine, and whispers, “I’ve never gotten to go before. It’s too expensive,” as she uses the back of her hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

The admission is a stark reminder of his own childhood and Fitz nods his head in understanding, almost admitting that the only Wimbledons he’d gotten to attend were ones he’d  _ played  _ in but instead deciding to give her a marginally less awkward pat on the head. “Well then, I’ll do my very best to stick around as long as possible so you get the chance to watch as much live tennis as you can stand.”

Margaret gives him another tight hug and Fitz sends her back to her father with a small wave, feeling a warmth spread through him as he turns around and hears the joint, giddy, laughter of the Taylors behind him.

The paparazzi are still gathered around Daniels ( _ bloody hell how long can this man talk?)  _ and Fitz breezes past them into the hotel. He gives the doorman and woman behind the desk a friendly nod before heading for the lift and being overcome with a sudden wave of exhaustion. The thought of collapsing on his bed is so appealing that he contemplates, for perhaps the first time in his life, foregoing dinner in favor of a blissful twelve hours of sleep.

When he finally makes it into his room, he tosses his bags in a corner and notices the blinking light on the hotel’s message machine.

_ Probably mum. _

Fitz hits the play button on his way to the bathroom ensuite, cricking his neck and rolling his shoulders in a bid to get rid of the day’s soreness. The prospect of  _ showering  _ it away makes him come dangerously close to moaning and Fitz shucks his shirt off before he’s even made it through the bathroom door.

“ _ Well done Fitz, Leo Fitz. Made it through round one! I have to say…” _

Fitz thinks he might actually have pulled something with the speed at which he runs back into the main room at the sound of Jemma’s voice. His eyes widen as he sprints to hover over the machine and listen to the message.

_ “…you were quite good at handling those balls today. Almost as good as me. Speaking of… you still owe me fish and chips. Say 7 o’clock? My twenty-one-twelve _ .”

The message machine clicks off and Fitz gapes at it for a solid minute before moving forward and gingerly pressing play again, half expecting to be met with silence since there’s no  _ way  _ Jemma Simmons really just…

“ _ Well done Fitz, Leo Fitz…” _

He plays the message another three times to try and figure out whether or not he’s deluded himself into hearing a _proposition_ within that generally innocuous message before remembering Jemma’s _previous_ suggestion of “working out” and realizing that there might be a slim chance that he _hadn’t_ misunderstood her.

At this realization, he glances down at his watch and widens his eyes at the 6:37 that is flashing up at him. “Oh bollocks.”

Fitz sprints into the shower, throwing clothes left and right as he mentally calculates how much time he’ll have left to run down to the fish shop around the corner and groans at the rather obvious answer:  _ Not a lot. _

“Shit, shit, shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some not so great news... This will probably be the last update until April as I'll be away from the country and my computer for the month of March. IF I have a chance to get something up, I'll try my darnedest but the likelihood isn't great :(


	8. Fish and Chips

Fitz feels a bit awkward, pressed in the back corner of the lift and studiously ignoring the wrinkled noses and narrowed eyes of the posh looking couples that are squished against him. He bounces softly on the balls of his feet, glancing at his watch each time the lift stops and new people make their way in and out of the already cramped box.

It’s already five past and Fitz wonders if being sweaty and out of breath after sprinting up twenty-ish flights of stairs would have been preferable to keeping Jemma Simmons waiting. He’s almost certain he’ll be sweaty and out of breath  _ anyways, _ what with the whole  _ meeting Jemma Simmons to possibly ‘work out,’  _ thing, and with each floor the lift stops on Fitz grows more and more restless.

When it finally comes to a halt on twenty-one, Fitz squeezes past the people disdainfully side-eying the paper-wrapped fish and chips in his arms and all but trips out of the tight box and into the hallway. He doesn’t look back but he swears he hears an older woman in the crow hat murmur, “Good riddance,” as the doors shut behind him.

He fidgets slightly, contemplating whether or not it might be in his best interest to simply drop the food and run away, before taking a steadying breath and making his way down the hallway to the suite that was mistakenly his for five minutes. When he pulls to a stop in front of 21-12, he stares at the looming black numbers on the door for well over a minute before working up the courage to shift the food in his arms and tentatively knock on the door.

The moment his knuckles make contact with the wood, Fitz’s eyes widen as he fully comprehends what he’s doing and what he might  _ potentially  _ be doing in the very near future.  _ Then  _ he remembers that he’s  _ Leo Fitz  _ and this suite belongs to  _ Jemma Simmons  _ and he promptly turns on his heel in a bid to sprint down the hallway back to the safety of his cramped little room.  _ Then  _ he turns on his heel  _ again  _ because nobody in their right mind should  _ ever  _ ignore a message from a beautiful woman inviting them over for fish and chips.

So he fidgets outside the door, counting each agonizing second that passes, and hopes with everything he has that this isn’t going to end with him being Carrie-d and a bucket of tartar sauce being dumped over his head. He’s just about to follow his gut and leave for real this time when the door swings open to reveal Jemma in a simple sundress that has Fitz gaping in stunned silence and dropping half of the fried cod on the floor.

“Bloody…”

He hastily bends down to snatch the wrapped fish from the floor, ears burning as he drops the tubs of sauce in the process, and pointedly ignores the titters of laughter coming from the frankly stunning woman standing in the doorway. When he finally manages to figure out the perfect balance of fish, likely soggy chips, and tartar sauce, Fitz rises back to his feet and gives Jemma a look that causes her to burst out laughing again.

“Why don’t you come in before the poor chips get dropped as well.”

She gives him a cocky little look that causes his eyes to narrow infinitesimally as he brushes past her into the suite and mutters, “Cheeky,” just loud enough to ensure that she’ll here him.

When he hears the door shut behind them, Fitz turns around and spots Jemma leaning casually against it with a somewhat worrying expression that Fitz can’t quite describe.

“Yes well, you would know.”

The comment is lost on him for a moment but then Jemma glances in the direction of the bathroom with a raised brow and a teasing grin and Fitz feels his  _ own _ cheeks redden at the reminder of just  _ how  _ he knows that she is  _ indeed  _ quite cheeky.

“I… I’d apologize again for that but I’ve a feeling you’d just laugh at me.”

Sure enough, the comment earns a giggle from Jemma and she moves further into the room with a bright smile that causes a fission of heat to run through the entire length of Fitz’s body. He’s still not entirely sure why he’s here, why Jemma’s  _ invited  _ him here, and the nerves begin to slowly work their way back as Fitz begins to internally panic trying to figure out what it is exactly he’s meant to do next.

He realizes that he likely looks a bit foolish, arms laden with food that he’s not totally sure he was supposed to bring at all, so he turns slightly and lets the fish, chips, and various sauces tumble onto the dining table with a muffled thud. The sight is a bit depressing if he’s being honest, greasy food wrapped in stained paper atop a table that likely costs as much as his car, so Fitz organizes it as best he can in an attempt to make it look somewhat presentable and at least  _ marginally _ appetizing.

Once he’s carefully arranged the food in front of two of the chairs at the table, Fitz turns back to Jemma and takes in the sight of her staring at him in amusement. He feels his face flush slightly under her scrutinizing gaze and wrings his hands nervously in front of him as she takes a few steps closer to him and tilts her head as though waiting for him to speak. He clears his throat slightly before raising his eyebrows expectantly and rather pointlessly pointing at the food.

“Did you… I mean… Do you want to eat now? Are you hungry?”

“Not for fish and chips.”

The borderline salacious look she gives him makes it pretty clear what it is that Jemma is implying but Fitz feels another surge of doubt and concludes that there’s still  _ no way  _ she could possibly mean what a very,  _ very,  _ tiny part of him  _ thinks  _ she means. He doesn’t want to assume that the hunger she’s alluded to is of the…  _ intimate… _ variety though, and instead wracks his brain in desperation to work something out that might better suit her tastes.

“Oh! Umm… well there’s quite a nice Indian joint around the corner that does takeaway… or umm… a little Italian place run by a rather lovely couple who…”

If he didn’t fully believe Jemma’s innuendo before, the hard kiss she gives him before he can mention the delightful taqueria down the street makes things pretty clear for Fitz.

After the initial few seconds of shock, Fitz presses back against her with as much passion as he can muster, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her slightly so as to better mold his lips against Jemma’s. There’s an ebb and flow to the kiss, as though they’re dueling against one another in a new kind of match, rallying and challenging with each sweep of the tongue and waiting for the other to return with a move of their own.

Jemma does something with her nails that causes him to groan, so he nips at her bottom lip and invokes the counter-reaction. It’s a constant give and take but Fitz is fairly certain that, whatever game they’re playing, he’s losing to Jemma. Something he’s not entirely upset about considering  _ losing  _ involves her tugging his lip with her teeth and scratching her nails against his neck in a way that would cause Fitz’s eyes to roll were they not already firmly shut.

When they finally break for air, Fitz is certain that he looks every bit the fish out of water, mouth open in astonishment and breaths coming in ragged pants. He’s positive that he looks rather stunned because Jemma once again has an almost teasing expression on her face as she loops her arms around his neck and presses her body flush against his.

He opens his mouth a few times in an effort to say  _ anything,  _ but finds that whatever intelligence and capabilities he possesses at most times have fled him entirely now. Instead, he just widens his eyes at Jemma and prays that, like most of their exchanges, she’ll once again take the lead and stop him from embarrassing himself any more than he already has. Luckily, she takes the silent cue, leaning in and pressing another long kiss to his lips. Fitz feels more than a bit dazed when she pulls away and lets her fingers lightly scratch through the hair on his neck as she asks, “Where do you come down on the whole,  _ fooling around before a match _ debate?”

Fitz feels his mouth drop open slightly because, even though  _ this  _ possibility had been running through his mind since he’d first heard her voice on his message machine, he still can’t quite believe that  _ Jemma Simmons  _ is now directly suggesting that they  _ fool around,  _ with  _ each other, tonight _ . He’s still not sure why  _ he  _ of all people has caught her attention, but the sultry look Jemma’s giving him, combined with the intoxicating feeling of her fingers running through his hair, has Fitz deciding that he’s not going to be the idiot who passes up the opportunity to spend as much time as humanly possibly with the woman in front of him.

“I… that’s… I suppose I’d have to do a bit of research before coming to a conclusion.”

It seems that this is the right thing to say because Jemma’s coquettish smile turns into a beaming one and she rises onto the balls of her feet to plant a smacking kiss to his lips before grabbing his hand and tugging him in the direction of one of the few rooms Fitz hadn’t stumbled in during his first visit to suite 21-12.

“Perfect, this way to the lab!”

-O-

He’d normally be a bit self-conscious about the way he’s positively  _ gulping  _ down air were it not for the fact that Jemma, sprawled beside him on the bed, seems just as eager to reintroduce herself to oxygen.

Fitz glances over at her, ears reddening at the sight of her bare skin despite the fact that he’s now rather well-acquainted with it, and blinks sluggishly as he tries to reflect back on recent events. Most of what he can remember comes in brief flashes and snippets, a particularly toe-curling moan here or a nip to the ear there, and he’s certain that his spotty memory is due largely to the fact that his brain tends to short-circuit within minutes of being in the presence of Simmons.

And most of their past encounters had been mere  _ conversations  _ that left him babbling.

He really can’t fault himself for being a bit out of commission considering, as it turns out, Jemma’s competitiveness most decidedly does  _ not  _ stay on the court.

_ Might’ve actually pulled something during that last round. _

He chances another glance at her now and feels a bashful smile spread across his face when he realizes he’s been caught. She’s looking at him with that same sly smile that he’s already grown accustomed to and Fitz can feel his cheeks redden as her eyes make a pointed sweep of his  _ own  _ body. Granted, it’s not as though his own admiration for  _ her  _ has been all that subtle.

He worries for a moment that this post-frenzied coupling glow will delve into something heavier, something awkward that his bumbling self won’t be able to navigate, but when he makes eye contact with Jemma once again, Fitz is pleased to see that her grin has transformed into a more affectionate smile. It’s silent for a beat, save for the steady drumming of his heart, before the two simultaneously burst into a fit of laughter that has Fitz rolling over to pin Simmons down as his fingers dance across the few ticklish spots he’d clocked earlier.

His upper hand lasts all but a few seconds before Fitz finds himself being flipped without much fanfare and peering up at Jemma as her own hands flit to his far more plentiful ticklish zones. Their joint laughter fills the room and within a minute Fitz finds himself once again breathless and gasping for air due to the physical prowess of Jemma Simmons.

“Who’s number one?”

The gleam in her eye as she asks the question is a little too victorious for his liking so, despite the fact that it’ll likely result in an extension of this particular form of torture, Fitz manages to gasp out, “Not positive… Williams is in good form these days…” between choked laughs.

The comment produces the exact reaction he’d been hoping for and Fitz begins to laugh for another reason as Jemma’s eyes narrow and a look of affronted shock makes its way across her face.

“Why you…”

Her hands double in speed, covering every ticklish spot on his body seemingly all at once, and Fitz does his best to maneuver himself away from her attack to no avail. His hands grapple at her waist but each spasm of laughter that runs through him makes it all but impossible for him to do anything about physically removing her from her position atop him. When the need for oxygen finally outweighs his need to maintain any sort of feigned pride, he snatches Jemma’s hands at the first opportunity and relents.

“Jemma Simmons! Jemma Simmons is number one at everything she does! Tennis, embarrassing hapless men who’ve wandered into her hotel room, and don’t even get me  _ started  _ on the sex…”

He actually  _ can’t  _ get started on discussing that Jemma is most unequivocally number one in that department as well because in the next moment her lips have descended on his and Fitz thinks that this is a moment to show rather than tell.

When she pulls away, she keeps her fingers twined through his and grins down at him in a way that makes him blush once again, a default complexion now.

“I don’t know about you Fitz, Leo Fitz, but I’ve worked up quite the appetite.”

As if on cue, his stomach grumbles and Jemma lets out a snort of laughter as he begins to nod eagerly in agreement. He sits up, careful not to displace her where she’s firmly seated on his legs, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as he asks, “Room service or soggy fish and chips?”

She shoots him a wink while pushing off the bed, understandably unashamed of her nudity as she waltzes towards the master bathroom where Fitz had first encountered her. When she returns, Jemma is snugly ensconced in one of the hotel’s plushest robes and the momentary disappointment of her being  _ covered  _ is quickly replaced by a growing warmth at the sight of her beaming grin and, “Soggy fish and chips  _ until  _ the room service arrives.”

Fitz takes this as his cue and snatches the phone from the ornate bedside table, repeating into the receiver what Jemma rattles off as she peruses the menu. After ordering enough food to feed the entire hotel, and battling his discomfort at Jemma’s breezy, “Just have them charge it to the room,” Fitz drops the phone back into its cradle and stretches along the mattress with a groan.

He tries to ignore the lascivious look that Jemma sends him as her eyes give another appraising sweep of his body, but he can both feel and see the splotchy blush that extends to his chest. The melodic giggle coming from Jemma makes it pretty clear that his rosiness has not gone unnoticed, but before Fitz can feel even more embarrassed by the physical effect Simmons has on him, she shifts to straddle his lap and he feels the far more  _ preferable  _ physical effect she evokes.

“What do you think Leopold? Another round before our food arrives?”

-O-

It’s not until two in the morning, when they’re halfway through a chocolate cake that Fitz is quite positive he might consider killing for, that Jemma seems to lose her standard air of levity and fixes him with a curiously serious look. Her eyes scan his face for a few seconds and Fitz can feel his heart begin to hammer in his chest as he wonders what it is her studying will find.

“Fitz I… about this, tonight I mean, I don’t… I’d like it to stay between us. Nobody needs to know,  _ especially  _ not May. I don’t need another lecture about distractions.”

Fitz feels something within him constrict at being labeled as nothing more than a distraction, but he  _ thinks  _ he does a fairly suitable job at covering up the small disappointment before Jemma gets a chance to see it. Her eyes flicker towards him and he makes certain to school his features, nodding thoughtfully, which seems to put Jemma slightly at ease. The tautness of her posture loosens slightly with each movement of his head and Fitz realizes that she had been worried about whatever his reaction might be.

_ Perhaps past workout buddies had been a bit less adept at hiding their feelings on the matter. _

He gives another firm nod before putting another forkful of cake into his mouth and talking around his food. “Yeah that’s… that’s… yeah that seems best. We’ll just keep things…”

Jemma cuts him off before he can finish, sitting up on her knees and turning to face him fully with a beaming grin. “Light, fun, and under the radar!”

Her cheery expression and almost  _ relief  _ at his, admittedly  _ feigned,  _ easy acceptance of her proposal sends another twinge of hurt through him but Fitz quickly reminds himself that  _ any  _ interaction with Jemma Simmons is something he should be thanking the cosmos for. He’s only known her for a short while, and has no  _ real  _ reason to be disappointed in her desire to keep things casual during the biggest tournament of their lives, but Fitz can’t help but feel as though Jemma Simmons is someone he’d like in his life for as long as he can have her.

He gives her a smile that becomes more genuine at the sight of the smudged icing smeared on her lower lip and pushes the tray of food to the side before pressing his mouth to hers and grinning at the sweetness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this is definitely the last chapter for 3-4 weeks! Real life is about to get hectic so I simply won't have the time/capability to update until early Aprilish. Hopefully the first FitzSimmons action will stave you until then.


	9. Round Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one this time! But hey, it's been awhile so anything's better than nothing, right?

Being crushed in the second round of Wimbledon due to complete exhaustion resulting from  _ exercising  _ until dawn, Fitz discovers, is most decidedly  _ not  _ fun.

_ Where the bloody hell are the damn English clouds? _

The cosmos are surely punishing him for the  _ research  _ he’d been so eager to conduct last night, with the sun and blistering heat making it feel more like the Sahara than the English countryside. He wipes the sweat from his forehead, staring glumly at the scoreboard across from him as he sits between side changes and laments the fact that he’s one set away from being done with professional tennis for good.

“Time.”

The chair ump’s voice blasts over the loudspeaker and Fitz sighs as he makes his way to the baseline, unable to shake the feeling that he’s walking to the gallows instead.

_ Serves you right. Gorging on every item on the hotel menu and then tasting some off-menu things as well. _

He shakes his head as his subconscious, eerily similar in sound to Hunter, reminds him of all the terrible pre-match decisions he made last night and blinks sluggishly as he watches his opponent toss a ball into the air and smack it in his direction.

He barely gets his racquet on it, flicking his wrist and pathetically knocking the ball into the net, and groans in irritation at his dismal display.

“C’mon.  _ Focus.  _ Stop thinking about last night, think about right now.”

The pep talk does little to help and less than two minutes later Fitz finds himself down another game.

_ At least nobody’s here to see you lose. _

As if on cue, he hears an eager, “Come on Fitz!”

He turns his head in surprise, eyes scanning the stands before his gaze lands on the young girl he’d given his friends and family tickets to. When she spots him looking, she gives him an excited wave and beaming grin that transforms into a look of awe when the woman standing behind her cheers, “Yeah, come on Fitz!”

Fitz is certain that Margaret’s surprise at the sight of Jemma Simmons, dressed impeccably in her practice whites and cheering on a relatively no-name player, is mirrored on his own face as he takes in the image. He somehow manages to gulp and groan simultaneously at the realization that not one but  _ two  _ people will actually witness his crushing defeat in person, and shakes his head slightly as he bounces the ball against the court with a sigh.

_ Just play your hardest. Let Margaret at least get the chance to watch more than three bloody sets. And, sure winning Wimbledon would be great, but the more matches you win, the longer you get to stick around and workout with Simmons. _

The reminder causes a flare of  _ something  _ to shoot through him and, as he tosses the ball into the air and watches as his racquet smacks it exactly where he wanted it to go, Fitz thinks he’s done far harder things to impress a girl than play good tennis.

He keeps his mind focused on the match, shifting attention after each game to make certain that Jemma is still watching from the stands, and the next thing Fitz knows, it’s match point in  _ his  _ favor. It’s an out of body experience, watching the ball lob into the air as his arm swings around and smacks it out of the sky. It lands with an audible thud on the other side of the net, past the outstretched arm of his opponent, and everything grows silent before his ears are ringing with the cheers and applause of a crowd of Brits happy to see another foreigner knocked out of the competition.

Fitz watches in a shocked stupor for a moment before snapping out of it long enough to shake the hands of his opponent and the chair ump. His eyes gravitate towards a specific section of the stands and he can both feel and hear his heart thumping in his chest when he makes eye contact with a smiling and clapping Jemma. He can’t prevent his own stunned giddiness from consuming him and shoots Jemma a toothy grin that only falters when he spots a stern-faced May appear at her side and pull her away. Jemma gives him a thumbs up as she glances over her shoulder and, when she disappears in the crowd, Fitz shifts his smile to the young girl proudly waving the Scottish flag and cheering his name.

-O-

“Fitz, Fitz! How does it feel to make it to the third round?”

“Are you surprised that you’re still here?”

He can’t help but laugh at the questions because the answer is of course  _ yes.  _ He was more than a little shocked to be present at the  _ last  _ press conference, and can’t quite figure out how, today, he’d managed to come back from what looked like certain defeat.

“Not as surprised as you lot it seems.”

The wry response, delivered with the perfect amount of self-deprication, is met with audible chuckles that cause some of the tension Fitz has been carrying to dissipate. The adrenaline from the physical side of the match, and the emotional high from  _ winning,  _ is never quite enough to assuage the nerves that are presented during press conferences. Fitz can’t help but note that there are quite a few more reporters in the room than last time, and feels rather proud of himself for managing to attract a marginally larger crowd.

He makes it through a few of the standard questions, carefully delivering an appropriate response to, “What did you do last night to prepare for today’s match?” He can only  _ imagine  _ the chaos that would erupt were he to tell the truth, and bitterly reminds himself that Jemma doesn’t want  _ anyone  _ to know about their… whatever it is… let alone a room of reporters.

Not that he’d tell them anyway.

“How much tougher will Round 3 be knowing who your opponent is?”

_ Thank god it’s not another question about his preferred pre-match eating habits. _

Fitz turns to the reporter with what he  _ hopes  _ is a bashful smile, rubbing at his neck and giving the crowd an embarrassed look. “Oh… actually, in all the excitement, I haven’t even gotten the chance to see who I’ll be playing.”

The raised eyebrows and shared glances that his response elicits causes something to twist in his gut. The reporter who’d asked the question gives him a look that Fitz can really only describe as being an odd mix of pity and delight and, when he finally speaks again, he understands why the man seems pleased to be delivering the news.

“It’s your practice partner. Antoine Triplett.”

_ Well fuck. _


	10. Desperately Seeking Simmons

“C’mon man… just  _ tell  _ me! Sore back, achy elbow? What should I exploit? What’s your major issue... other than your frankly disgusting eating habits?”

Fitz pushes his friend over with a feigned glare that he can only hold for about a second before he cracks and grins at Trip’s boisterous laughter.

After the initial panic that yesterday’s press conference caused, Fitz had walked out of the room and spotted Trip leaning against the wall with an easy grin and a hand awaiting a fist-bump. The nerves and anxiety that had suffocated him while with the reporters dissipated almost immediately at the sight of his friend’s easy grin and Fitz didn’t hesitate to smack his own knuckles against Trip’s. Just seeing his steady companion had made Fitz realize that he’d  _ much  _ rather lose in the third round of Wimbledon to Trip than anyone else.

Now they’re taking advantage of their time off before their joint match by strolling the London streets and searching for whatever elusive gift will make up for Trip missing his mother’s birthday.

“Seriously, didn’t you pull something recently? How’s your back recovering?”

This time, his glare is a bit more genuine and Trip seems to pick up on the fact that  _ that  _ particular injury is still one that should be discussed as infrequently as possible.

“Sorry man. Just trying to get you to loosen up.”

“Oh don’t worry _Antoine_ … I’m plenty loose. You’re going to _wish_ I was tight when I nail your ass on Friday.”

It’s silent for a few beats before Trip bursts out laughing and Fitz hears what he’s just said. He lets out a groan and a muttered, “You know what I meant,” that only makes Trip laugh harder.

“Yup. You’re going to make sweet love to me on Friday. Can’t say I’m surprised, not many people can resist this temple.”

The little shimmy Trip does causes Fitz to roll his eyes with a huff of laughter and a small shove. “You’re such a wanker.”

Trip wiggles his eyebrows and Fitz groans, already knowing what his friend’s response will be. “Apparently, on Friday  _ you’ll  _ be the wanker.”

The, “Bloody hell,” is mumbled quietly enough that Trip doesn’t seem to hear it so Fitz gives him another eye roll and says, “Shove off Trip. Look, your mum would like that tea set wouldn’t she?” He shoves the other man in the direction of the storefront and waits for him to become engrossed in whatever he sees in the window before extracting his phone.

He bites his lip with a small grin as he pounds in the number to the hotel, hoping that his time off might be used for some extracurricular exercise, and holds his breath as the phone begins to ring.

“The Dorchester, Billy speaking, how may I help you?”

“Yes umm… I’m calling for Jemma Simmons, Room 2112 please.”

“One moment sir, I’ll connect you.”

It's silent for a few seconds before Fitz hears the telltale click of an open line and he immediately starts talking before he loses his nerve.  “Jemma! Hi, it's... it’s Fitz. Listen, I’ve got a fair bit of time to kill before my next match and was wondering if you might be interested in getting together for some… practice. I’ve grown rather fond of those high thread count sheets in your sui…”

“Jemma doesn’t have time to practice anything other than her slice serve Fitz.”

His eyes widen at the sound of the dry voice coming over the phone and feels the blood rush from his face as the panic begins to set in. “May! I meant… I wasn’t implying… I didn’t…”

“Don’t call again Fitz.”

The four words seem to say far more coming from May than anyone else and the addition of the sharp end of the call makes Fitz pretty certain that no message will be passed along to Jemma. He runs his fingers through his hair, replaying the brief phone call in his mind and wincing at what a complete and utter  _ knob  _ he was.

_ As if May hadn’t been terrifying enough already. _

“Fitz, man c’mon! I wanna check this place out.”

He waves Trip on, following slowly as he tries to work out a way to get some face time with Jemma  _ without  _ getting murdered by May in the process.

“Bloody hell.”

-O-

The next morning, after hitting for an hour with a new practice partner for the first time in  _ years,  _ Fitz decides that a bit of networking couldn’t hurt. Granted,  _ his  _ version of networking will be focused more on finding Jemma than promoting himself in any capacity, but the opportunity to chat up some of the other players and coaches seems the best place to start his search.

He weaves his way through the club restaurant, peeking between the courts below as he does to see how the others are faring, and politely inquires with anyone he recognizes whether or not they’ve seen Jemma around.

The unanimous answer seems to be  _ no,  _ with the fact that May has her on a tight rope  _ clearly  _ indicated by most, and by the time he makes it to the shaded umbrellas Fitz finds himself feeling rather dejected by the lack of information. He rubs his neck in frustration as he contemplates risking another phone call to the hotel when he spots his favorite doubles duo and feels a smile break out across his face.

“Izzy! Vic!”

He gives a small wave before making his way to the partners with genuine enthusiasm, laughing as the two women stand up the moment they spot him and engulf him in a hug that leaves him more breathless than an hour at the gym with Trip.

“Fitz! How are you?”

“Is that  _ stubble?! _ I remember when you could barely grow peach fuzz!”

He shoots a scowl in Izzy’s direction, huffing in irritation as Victoria cackles by her side, and collapses into a nearby chair to wait for the women to finish their standard bit of teasing.

“Oh Fitz, cheer up!”

Vic ruffles his hair affectionately before plopping down next to him with a raised brow. “Now… what brings you to the lounge? Shouldn’t you be nervously pacing somewhere?”

He can’t help but release a chuff of laughter at the accuracy of Vic’s assessment. She and Izzy had served as pseudo maternal figures to him since his early days on the circuit and both are all too familiar with the anxiety and general nerves that plague him during tournaments.

“Yes Fitz, you seem, dare I say,  _ relaxed.  _ Rather, relaxed for  _ you.  _ What gives?”

Izzy gives him an arched brow that does nothing to hide the mischievous twinkle in her eyes and Fitz knows with certainty that whatever teasing he’s just dealt with will likely pale in comparison to what’s in store. He briefly contemplates not mentioning the reason for his  _ marginally  _ less fidgety state, not wanting to watch these pseudo mothers (“Cool young aunts Fitz!”) gleefully clap their hands and grill him endlessly, but Vic and Izzy know everyone and, more importantly, know  _ everything.  _ If anyone might know the whereabouts of the World #1, it’s them.

So, with a resigned sigh, Fitz glances between the partners and rips off the metaphorical Band-Aid. “You’ve… you’ve not seen Jemma around today have you? Jemma Simmons?”

Once again, Fitz is unsurprised to see that the partners are just as in sync off the court as they are on. They both lean back in their chairs, crossing their arms and raising their brows in unison, before turning to each other and letting the slow smiles break across their faces. He shifts uncomfortably when their gazes return to him and begins fiddling with his hands in an attempt to distract from the blush that is now blooming across his cheeks.

“I haven’t seen dear Jemma around today. Have you Iz?”

“Can’t say that I have Vic, though…”

Izzy’s voice dies off, likely because of the warning look her partner is now shooting her, and Fitz straightens in his seat as he watches them communicate silently with one another. They obviously know something he doesn’t, not surprising considering they  _ always  _ know something while he’s in the dark, and he’s desperate to wheedle it out of them.

He leans forward in his seat, hoping that the, “puppy eyes,” that journalists say he has might work against the toughest women in tennis. “What? Though what?”

Izzy gives Vic another look, widening her eyes and jerking her head in his direction, and Fitz waits patiently until Victoria sighs, waving her hand dismissively and apparently giving her partner the okay to give him whatever tidbit of information they have. Izzy turns back to face him and crinkles her nose as if bracing herself for a negative reaction.

“Though you might ask Will Daniels.”

Fitz can’t help but naturally blanche at the name, not the least bit interested in seeking out the other player, and shoots the to women a look.

“What, why?”

He can see Vic roll her eyes in his peripheral vision and even Izzy give him an exasperated look before raising her brows and tilting her head.

“Why do you  _ think _ ?”

Fitz watches as her fingers  _ almost  _ make a rather cruel gesture before Vic slaps them away with a tut.  It all clicks into place and he feels a bit foolish for taking so long to realize just  _ why  _ the two most famous, attractive, players in tennis might have tabs on one another.

“Oh…  _ oh.  _ I see.”

He falls back in his seat and feels a flicker of disappointment at the realization that Will Daniels is evidently his competition in every facet of his life. Not that Jemma is someone to  _ compete  _ for, his mother would likely slap him upside the head for even thinking such a thing, but the fact that Will Bloody Daniels is her ex ( _ practice partner? Boyfriend?)  _ certainly isn’t something that he’s thrilled to discover.

He picks mindlessly at an invisible piece of flint on his practice whites, stopping only when a warm hand pats his own. He looks up to see Izzy smiling at him and tries to muster a smile.

“Oh don’t sulk. Apparently he’s more jilted than lover. Seems Will Daniels isn’t number one in  _ all  _ regards…”

She gives him a wink and a smirk that mirrors the grin on Vic’s face and Fitz feels a warmth spread through him at their assurances. He hopes they can read the appreciation on his face because he's not certain he's ready to vocalize any sort of confirmation about just  _ why  _ he appreciates their insider information.

“Right well, as tempting as a conversation with Will Daniels is, I think I’ll just keep looking on my own. Pleasure as always ladies, good luck tomorrow!”

He hoists himself up from the table, chuckling at Izzy’s graceless snort and Victoria’s, “We don’t need  _ luck,”  _ before moseying his way through the rich box holders, other players, and coaches crowded in the lounge. He cranes his neck in search for the impeccable ponytail that is Jemma’s signature look when someone tugs his arm and asks, “Looking for someone?”

“Yes actually! I… oh…”

Fitz’s eyes widen as he comes face-to-face with a stony Melinda May, who likely knows  _ exactly  _ which, “someone,” it is that he’s looking for. He gulps as her eyes narrow and follows without question when she nods her head and pivots towards a less congested section of the lounge. They’ve barely stopped for a second when she gives him a stern look and begins to speak.

“I’m only going to say this once Fitz. Jemma’s on a roll right now and can’t afford any distractions.”

The implication is more than clear but Fitz finds that his mind is more similar to gelatin when cornered by May, meaning clarification certainly couldn’t hurt.

“And… I’m… that is you think  _ I… _ ”

“You are a  _ distraction _ Fitz. That’s all you are. Jemma’s a shoo-in for the Wimbledon title and I’ll be damned if I let her… extracurricular activities… interfere with everything that she’s been working so hard for.”

He suddenly feels like the thirteen year-old he was when he’d  _ first  _ met the intimidating woman in front of him and finds himself physically shrinking beneath her glare. “Right. So…”

“So, stop calling the room, stop asking around for her, stop anything having to do with my player Fitz. She has a Grand Slam to win.”

She’s gone before he can even stutter out a response, lost in the crowd of the coaches that are  _ clearly  _ no match for her and the players that are no match for  _ hers, _ and Fitz marvels at the fact that his longest conversation with May to date ended with one of the more epic warnings he’s ever been handed.


	11. Rain Delays

The next day starts off with a long, disgustingly  _ healthy,  _ breakfast with Trip that ends with the agreement that their attempt at maintaining professional distance was a fucking  _ terrible  _ idea and Fitz listening in amusement as his friend details the appalling practice session he’d had the day prior. Evidently, his own horrible training was rivaled only by Trip’s, and Fitz feels entirely at ease when his friend extends his fist over the table and says, “Screw it. We already know everything about each other’s game already, I want to get some  _ good  _ practice in before I kick your ass on Friday. Whaddya say Fitz, you with me ‘til the end of the line?”

He covers Trip’s fist with his own, laughing as his friend rolls his eyes in mock irritation over his refusal to give an actual fist  _ bump,  _ and happily agrees to continue practicing together.

Unfortunately, the cosmos seem to be against them because, not twenty minutes into their session, a deluge opens up and the courts are promptly closed and covered. They sprint their way into the locker rooms and find it filled with irritated players whose respective practice time and matches came to an abrupt end thanks to the typical English weather.

Fitz reaches into his locker, tuning out the din of conversation, and sniffs one of the spare t-shirts balled at the bottom before tugging it over his head with a shrug. He ducks away from a pair of shorts lobbed over him, wrinkling his nose in disgust and silently cheering the fact that this is the last time he’ll have to deal with a bunch of sweaty men in a locker room.

He waits silently as Trip changes into his own dry clothes, only glancing up when Coulson comes in and announces that all of the day’s matches have been postponed until the following day at the earliest.

A cacophony of groans erupts and Fitz has to duck once again to avoid being hit in the head with a towel that's tossed in irritation down the row. He rolls his eyes at the antics of his colleagues before hoisting his bag over his shoulder and following Trip out of the room with a short wave in the general direction of the other players.

“Man, we’d better have blue skies on Friday. I want this over with as soon as possible.”

Fitz nods his head in agreement before realizing that Trip’s gait means that the other man can’t actually  _ see  _ him, so he hums in response and says, “Tell me about it. Though, I did check the forecast and…”

He putters off at the feeling of Trip’s elbow making contact with his ribs and looks up from the ground to glare at his friend. Unfortunately, his  _ very  _ intimidating look is entirely ignored by Trip, whose focus seems to be on something across the street. Fitz follows his friend’s gaze to a sleek-looking black car and furrows his brow when the back window rolls down and a dainty hand appears. It disappears in the next second, obscured as an enormous bus decked out with the Wimbledon logo and a photo of Jemma Simmons mid-serve drives by.

When the double-decker passes, Fitz notices that the hand, the very one he realizes is showcased on half of the city’s public transportation, is now beckoning for him through the open window. The crooked finger causes heat to shoot through him and he releases a short cough in Trip’s direction while keeping his gaze on the sedan.

“I uh… I’ll… I think I’m gonna…”

He hears a bark of laughter and, though his eyes are still trained on the fingers now disappearing into the car, he  _ knows  _ that there’s a lascivious grin on his friend’s face, something that is all but confirmed with his Trip’s, “Yeah I  _ think you’re gonna  _ too. Catch up with you later man.”

That and Trip’s slight shove is all Fitz needs to make his way into the rain, barely checking the flow of traffic as he hastily crosses the street. When he gets to the cracked window, he can’t help but smile at the smirk he’s greeted by. 

Whatever flare her beckoning finger caused has  _ nothing  _ on the toothy grin that Jemma is giving him now and Fitz can’t help but match it with one of his own. He does his best to emulate the unaffected persona that some of the other players have long since perfected, placing his hands on either side of the open window and leaning casually against the luxury sedan with a feigned air of nonchalance.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

The slight crack in his voice gives him away immediately, though, he’s fairly certain that Jemma wouldn’t have fallen for his act even if he’d managed to get through a sentence without sounding like a prepubescent. She quirks a brow at him, eyes flickering between his arms in what Fitz  _ thinks  _ could be considered interest, before her smile widens and a snort of laughter passes her lips.

“Yes well… word on the street is you’ve been looking for me.”

He lets his head thunk against the car with an audible groan and can’t help but smile when he hears Jemma begin to chuckle at his antics. When he ducks back down to catch her eye, he knows that his cheeks are likely an embarrassing shade of red.

“Well, it’s nice to see that Vic and Iz can take a break from teasing me to pass a message along.”

His fingers tap along the roof of the car eyes flickering over the freckles dotted across her face and he struggles to focus on the words that leave Jemma’s mouth rather than just… her mouth.

“And what exactly  _ was  _ the message Fitz, Leo Fitz? Surely not just that a certain Scottish tennis prodigy was seeking me out.”

The simultaneously coy and smug smile that seems to be permanently affixed to Jemma’s face makes it pretty clear that she knows that, in fact, the message  _ was  _ simply that he’d been looking for her. So instead of trying to deny it or come up with some moderately believable excuse, Fitz gives her a small smile and asks, “What are you up to?”

Jemma’s smile remains in place and she gives a nonchalant shrug as her eyes flick towards something behind him. “Just meeting someone for lunch.”

Fitz casts a quick glance over his shoulder and feels his chest tighten when he catches sight of Will Daniels talking to a crowd of fans and photographers alike. The sight makes him think back to the previous day’s conversation with Izzy and Vic. The implication of Jemma’s relationship with Will had been made all too clear but Fitz can’t help but feel a bit dejected to learn that it might not be as over as he’d originally thought.

“Oh! Okay well don’t let me hold you up. Things to see people to do… No! I meant things to  _ do  _ people to  _ see!  _ I didn’t… I didn’t mean. Though if you ever want… If you ever have time to kill…” He can feel his cheeks pinken with each word that leaves his mouth and all but sighs in relief when Jemma claps her hand over his lips with a laugh.

“Fitz!”

She removes her hand with a grin and Fitz gulps at her new proximity. Leaning halfway out the window now, face just a few scant centimeters from his own, her eyes seem to sparkle even on this dreary, grey, afternoon.

“Yeah?”

_ Is his voice normally that gravelly? _

Jemma’s smile widens once more and she looks at him as though he’s entirely inept. “I’m meeting  _ you,  _ right now, for lunch.”

He blinks once at her words and once again at the expectant expression on her face before finding it in himself to actually process this turn of events.

_ Lunch. With him. Jemma Simmons is meeting him for lunch. _

“Wh… oh!  _ Oh!  _ Yeah that’s… yeah! Good. Er… shall… shall I get in or did you want to walk? Will the Grand Slam Queen melt in a bit of rain?”

Jemma throws her head back in laughter at his remark, scooting along the back seat as she does, before quirking her head and motioning for him to fill the vacancy. “Best get in. The rain’s fine, the paparazzi across the street who think I’m still on the grounds are not.”

He casts another glance at the crowd behind him, noting that Daniels is still hamming it up for the reporters surrounding him, and feels a small flicker of warmth at the look of disgust on Jemma’s face at the sight. He doesn’t even bother trying to hide his smile when he opens the door of the car, shoving his tennis bag unceremoniously into the vehicle before gracelessly following and shutting the door behind him.

He clicks the seat belt into place, jumping slightly when he feels something press against his side. 

Turning slightly, Fitz grins when he notes that Jemma has moved to sit beside him in the middle seat. He watches in rapt attention as she rights her own seat belt before turning to him with her customary smile in place and asking, “So Fitz, how do you feel about sushi?”


	12. Rain Date

They wind up at at a little sushi restaurant across from Hyde Park that is blissfully empty save for a few occupied tables. The futuristic ambiance of the restaurant, seemingly straight from the modern-design section of an IKEA catalog, isn’t necessarily his taste but Jemma seems to own this room as easily as all the others she walks into.

Though a small part of him wants to whisk her away to a dingy pub or mom-and-pop establishment, Fitz can’t help but laugh when Jemma’s eyes light up in delight when she spots the sushi train working its way past the bar. Without thinking, he grabs her hand from where it’s hanging loosely by her side and tugs her along, waiting for her to hop onto a stool before making a show of jumping into the one beside her.

Despite their somewhat limited interactions thus far, Fitz already finds that he enjoys nothing quite as much as he does making Jemma laugh and feels pride bloom in his chest when she chuffs at his antics. He feels a bit nervous, sitting in a posh restaurant for lunch with the most famous female tennis player in the world, but the nerves dwindle almost immediately when he begins plucking item after item from the little conveyor belt of sushi that passes.

Food is food after all and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t take advantage of the wide array in front of him.

He glances towards his…  _ date? Companion? Friend?  _ and pauses with the chopsticks halfway towards his mouth when he catches sight of the borderline aghast expression on Jemma’s face. He lowers the chopsticks, feeling suddenly self-conscious thanks to Jemma’s gaping, and shoots her a quizzical look.

“What?”

She blinks quickly, glancing between him and the trays set out in front of him, before pointing her own chopstick in surprise. “You’re eating  _ all  _ of that?”

Fitz can’t help but laugh at her question and briefly considers reminding her that after their… late-night activities… he’d eaten  _ both  _ portions of their fish and chips as  _ well  _ as much of the ordered room service.

_ Perhaps she thought that was just his post-“workout” appetite... _

Fitz lets out another chuckle, both at the thought  _ and  _ Jemma’s appalled expression, and shakes his head in amusement. “‘Course not. That’d be ridiculous…” He waits until she nods in agreement and returns to her own (rather paltry) meal before popping a crab roll into his mouth and muttering around it, “I don’t like the wasabi.”

He makes a point of shoving the green goo of doom to the side before snatching a different roll and dipping it into the soy sauce with a grin, dodging Jemma’s swat as he does. He makes an exaggerated moan around the tuna in his mouth and once again feels more vindicated than he likely should when Jemma rolls her eyes with a scoff.

“Unbelievable.  _ How  _ you managed to make it to the third round of Wimbledon on that diet is  _ beyond  _ me.”

Fitz’s grin falters slightly at her words and he pops another roll in his mouth in an attempt to buy time to gather himself. There’s no sense in being anything other than honest so, with a small shrug and a self-deprecating twitch of the lips, he mumbles, “How I made it to the third round  _ at all  _ is beyond me."

He expects Jemma to nod her head in agreement or perhaps give him a sympathetic pat on the back, but instead she scoffs again and makes certain to face him when she rolls her eyes. “Oh  _ please _ . You can take this whole thing Fitz. So long as you don’t get in your own way.”

He blinks at her in surprise, briefly wondering if she’s having a laugh before realizing that the nonchalance with which she is now eating her edamame means that she’s  _ serious.  _ Having a laugh she is not, meaning that Jemma Simmons genuinely believes that he might actually  _ win _ Wimbledon.

“How… how do you mean?”

Jemma glances up from her food with something that Fitz would classify as a blush were he to see it on  _ anyone  _ else and bites at her lip for a moment before turning to face him fully.

“I knew who you were. That first day. When you walked in on me? I knew who you were.”

“You  _ did? _ ”

She gives him yet  _ another  _ eye roll and stares at him as though he’s a particularly young toddler who needs things explained as slowly as possible. “Of  _ course  _ I did Fitz. What kind of British tennis prodigy would I be if I didn’t know who Leo Fitz was? I’ve seen you play, on telly  _ and  _ in person. Which is how I know that the  _ only player _  who ever actually beats you is… well,  _ you. _ ”

“You… you’ve seen…  _ what? _ I’m not… I don’t… Not true! Trust me,  _ plenty  _ of people have beaten me. I don’t...”

“Oh really? Two years ago, the Australian Open.  _ Finals.  _ You had two sets and were up 4 to 1 in the third and  _ then  _ what happened?”

“I… I…”

“You hit an  _ ace  _ serve that the ball girl couldn’t get out of the way of. You carried her off the court and then you  _ tanked. _ ”

He can’t do much but gape at her like the fish he’s now eating and is too stunned in general to even come up with a rebuttal satisfactory enough to keep Jemma from continuing. She seems to be working herself up, hands gesticulating and soy sauce flying from the roll clamped between her chopsticks.

“And while everyone was calling you the gallant Scot  _ I  _ couldn’t help but think what a complete and utter wanker you were.”

_ This  _ is enough to snap him out of his stunned silence and he turns to her in shock. “A  _ wanker?!  _ You thought I was a  _ wanker  _ because I felt bad about giving a thirteen year-old girl a black eye?!”

Jemma waves her hand dismissively and Fitz finds himself feeling a bit put-out by the gesture. 

_ Surely she isn’t actually annoyed with him for being a decent person? _

“To play  _ so  _ beautifully and then  _ lose  _ because you were in your own head. It was a shame, that’s all.”

She gives a small shrug and finally eats the sushi she’s been waving around, clearly giving him a window to get a word in. He’s not entirely sure what to say, still fairly certain that he has no reason to defend his actions, and settles for an  _ arguably  _ petulant, “Sorry for feeling badly.”

Evidently the petulence is far more obvious than perhaps he might have intended because Jemma releases a combination between a huff and a sigh. It’s as though she doesn’t  _ want  _ to continue this conversation but has too much to say to stop.

“That’s my point! You  _ had  _ it Fitz. That match, that title, that  _ comeback…  _ don’t give me that look I know that was the point of that entire tour for you… they were  _ yours.  _ But you psyched yourself out. You let emotions get in the way and you  _ lost. _ ”

An awkward silence descends over them and Fitz notes that Jemma actually looks a bit nervous by his lack of response. Others might not notice the rigidity of her always impeccable posture, or attribute her biting of her lip to trying to get the last remnants of soy sauce from her mouth, but Fitz can tell that she’s anxious about how he’ll react to her voiced opinion.

It’s not the first time that such things have been said to him, he’d drunk many a pints with, and received numerous truth-bombs from, Hunter and Trip in the months following that particular loss, but hearing it come out of Jemma’s mouth makes the wallop that much harder.

The thing of it is, she’s not saying it to be mean. Despite what some rumors may lead people to believe, Fitz has quickly learned that Jemma doesn’t possess a genuinely cruel bone in her body. She is blunt, practical, and entirely honest, even when it might sting, and what some view as impassiveness, Fitz has learned, is actually an acutely observational and perceptive individual. It’s  _ this  _ fact that allows Fitz to release some of his defensiveness, disregard the small wounds that this topic of conversation has reopened, and throw away his feigned pride in order to actually hear the point that Jemma is trying to make.

Because she  _ is  _ right.

That loss in Australia was the clear example of his emotions and inner demons negatively impacting his game, but it certainly isn’t the  _ only  _ example. It’s been his greatest weakness for as long as he can remember and, though he has scoffed when commentators have pointed it out, Jemma’s observations have him thinking about all of the moments over his career where his heart and head have prevented him from winning.

With this internal acknowledgment, Fitz gives Jemma a small nudge before stealing a roll from her plate and chewing around it. “You’re tough Simmons. You’d think Melinda May is your coach or something…”

The tension immediately dissipates at that and Jemma releases an almost  _ relieved _ laugh that he previously never would have thought could come from someone the journalists had dubbed ‘The Ice Queen.’ She snags a piece of sushi from his own plate with a delighted grin that only widens when he pretends to be deeply wounded by the thievery.

“A cruel woman you are Simmons, bringing up a man’s career low and then  _ stealing  _ his food?! Horrible. Bloody horrible.”

Jemma releases another small laugh before, rather adorably in his opinion, pushing her plate closer to him in some sort of delicious sushi peace-offering. He gives her a smile and plucks another piece from her dish, the silence now a comfortable one that is only broken by Jemma’s soft voice.

“If it makes you feel any better, I couldn’t stop thinking about that match.”

He glances over at Jemma whose cheeks are once again a shade rosier than usual, which he doesn’t quite understand until she shoots him a bashful smile and continues talking. “Though, confession, I suppose more  _ accurately  _ I should say that I couldn’t stop thinking about  _ you. _ In fact, I was hoping I might meet you here.”

His mouth drops open slightly at her words and he finds his heart begin to quicken at the sincerity on Jemma’s face. She looks oddly vulnerable in this moment and he’s about to comment on it when the mischief returns to her eyes.

“Of course… you walking into my hotel room while I was naked in the shower wasn’t  _ exactly _ how I was expecting our introduction to happen...”

Fitz releases a groan and wonders how their first meeting can  _ still  _ be such a humorous anecdote considering the fact that he’d since seen  _ far  _ more of her than he had that day. Still, looking at her pink cheeks Fitz has a feeling that Jemma’s teasing likely has far more to do with playing down her previous admission than it does making him squirm.

_ Fair is fair. _

“Okay then, here’s  _ my  _ confession. I didn’t start playing well the other day until you showed up.” 

He waits for a beat until Jemma glances up at him before shifting his gaze and awkwardly rubbing at his neck. “I… I just didn’t want to let you down. Didn’t want you to see me lose. I wanted to impress you.”

There’s no response and when he finally has the courage to glance up, Fitz is a bit heart warmed to see a pleased smile on Jemma’s face. It’s softer than most he’s seen on her and seems to cause an all-consuming warmth to flood through him. He hopes that his smile causes a similar experience for her and hastily snatches another platter of sushi from the conveyor belt before he can dwell too much on the fact that hoping for such a thing is  _ not  _ something that a casual fling should think about.

 

-O-

 

The remainder of the day is spent strolling through the park as if they’re two ordinary people rather than athletes in one of the largest sporting events in Britain. The rain had let up during their lunch but the looming clouds have worked wondrously at clearing the park of most tourists and other visitors, thus giving them ample opportunity to goof around like the teenagers they never were.

Jemma laughs delightedly as he trails behind a family of ducks, doing a rather poor job of disguising himself as their long-lost duckling sibling, and he chokes on nothing when she clambers up to pose rather indecently with the looming statue of Achilles.

He convinces her to throw out her rigid tournament diet and buys her a cone, watching with a grin as she somehow manages to get soft serve on her nose. Even better is when she leaps onto his back when he swipes the chocolate flake that she’d been saving from her hand and keeps her arms and legs locked around him long after she’d reclaimed her treat.

By the time the sun goes down, and the various street lamps scattered about are the only things lighting their way, Fitz realizes that he hasn’t felt quite so carefree in a long time. In fact, he’s forgotten entirely about his upcoming match until Jemma, arm looped through his own, asks who he’ll be going up against.

“One of my best mates actually, Triplett.”

She gives a small hum at that and Fitz tugs her towards a nearby fountain as he waits for her inevitable words of sympathy. Of course, this means that her  _ actual  _ response is as far from what he’d been expecting as is possible.

“Should be easy then, you know all of his weaknesses.”

From an outside point of view, Fitz can understand why Jemma might find tomorrow’s match to be  _ easy _ , but her pointing out his in-depth knowledge of Trip and his game only reminds him of how stressful their match will actually be. “True, but he knows all of mine as well. Plus… I don’t know. Sucks a bit doesn’t it?”

Jemma climbs up on the small ledge of the fountain, walking along the perimeter and keeping one hand firmly gripping Fitz’s shoulder as she lets out an exasperated sigh. He just barely catches the, “Oh here we go,” that she murmurs but quickly turns to face her when he does- already feeling the need to get his defenses up. “What?”

She releases another small sigh, this one more exhausted than exasperated, and loops her arms around his neck as she looks down from her perch on the fountain wall. “Nothing it’s just... this is precisely what I was talking about earlier. Why do you think I don’t have any friends in the sport, Fitz? Because I really  _ am _ a heartless robot with no feelings? Because I’m some form of life model decoy programmed to hate everything and everyone other than myself?”

“No!”

She takes the time to give him a droll look before continuing on. “I know what they call me you know. How many, “Ice Queen Cometh,” or, “No Friends Mo’ Foes,” headlines have you seen about me? But the reason I don’t have friends isn’t because I have no feelings, it’s because I  _ do.  _ Which isn’t exactly conducive for becoming the top player in tennis.”

Fitz blinks at this and suddenly wonders how drastically different his training had been from Jemma’s. His friendships, though arguably an issue at points on the court, have always been a point of pride for him  _ off  _ court- and he can’t help but wonder if him never being the top player in tennis might have something to do with never affecting the impassive attitude held by many of his competitors.

“Having friends means becoming emotionally invested and  _ distracted.  _ I can’t afford to worry about winning a match and losing a friend. It’s too hard not to think when playing people you care about so… better not to care at all.”

He looks at Jemma, arms wrapped around his neck and fingers almost subconsciously playing with his hair, and wonders how deep this mindset of her runs… or if she  _ thinks  _ it runs deeper than it actually does. “Not care at  _ all? _ ”

She takes a step back, hands moving from his shoulders to fist at her waist, and levels him with the look of someone who  _ knows  _ that they’re smarter than you. “What was your first thought when you found out you were playing Trip?”

“Fuck.”

His response is instantaneous and Jemma nods sagely as though it’s the exact answer she was expecting to hear. “Fuck because he’s a great player that you think you’re going to lose to, or fuck because he’s your friend and you don’t want to send him packing?”

“I… I…”

His stuttering only seems to further confirm whatever it is that Jemma is trying to prove. “ _ Exactly _ . You travel together, you practice together, you basically  _ live  _ together. Do you really have what it takes to knock out one of your best friends in the third round of Wimbledon?”

The question is a bit startling in its bluntness and Fitz finds that he doesn’t have much of a response to it. Though his silence seems to speak volumes to Jemma because she hops down from the fountain and once more loops her arm through his as she begins to walk in the direction of the park exit.

“And  _ that  _ is the toughest thing about this sport. There’s a winner, and there’s a loser. And tomorrow, one of you  _ will  _ be the loser. It’s just a question of who.”


	13. Round Three

Unsurprisingly, Fitz gets little sleep the night before his match against Trip. Though not the result of wild sex, his sleepless night can still be attributed to Jemma Simmons, her vocalized observations replaying in his mind well into the morning.

While the points she made weren’t anything he hadn’t heard before, the assuredness with which she spoke seemed to cause a mental shift as he reflected back on them. Of _course_ every tennis match will produce a winner and a loser, and of _course_ he’d hope Trip would be the former in most cases but Jemma’s almost blasé reminder of how tennis works has made Fitz realize that today _he’d_ quite like to be the winner. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to become as intentionally focused as Jemma on the court but their conversation last night has given him the newfound belief that he can at least taper the constant self-doubt that hovers above him whenever he steps onto the grass.

The _moderate_ surge of confidence is a feeling that Fitz is almost entirely unused to, or at the very least one he hasn’t experienced much of in recent years, and seems to translate into fidgety pacing. He casts a cursory glance at the alarm clock by his bedside and tries to remember what time the hotel’s restaurant begins serving breakfast. A quick perusal of the room service menu tucked away on the table confirms that food _is_ now available for consumption and Fitz feels his stomach rumble as soon as he reads as much.

He and Trip had previously agreed to some separation in the hours preceding their match, his friend joking that they were essentially following the traditions of bride and groom on their wedding day, so Fitz grabs his room card and heads down to eat without feeling guilty about not extending an invitation. He eats without thinking, shoveling eggs into his mouth without tasting anything, and winds up leaving the buffet area in record time. It’s barely seven when he returns to his room and changes into his whites but the nervous energy coursing through him has made him too restless to remain in the confines of the hotel. He calls for his car and thankfully has to wait a mere ten minutes for it to pull up to the Dorchester’s entrance.

The ride to the grounds seems to take no time at all and the next thing Fitz is aware of, he’s sitting in the locker room and watching the hands of the clock on the wall tick closer and closer to his match’s start time. Other players come and go, bustling about and throwing general words of encouragement in his direction, but he keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the time until Coulson calls his name.

“Time to go.”

He gives the older man a quick nod of the head before grabbing his bag, hoisting it over his shoulder, and following Coulson to the tunnel. Trip is already waiting and gives him an affectionate smile that he couples with a wave of his hand. Fitz can hear Jemma’s voice in his head telling him to cut ties and view Trip as a nameless blob rather than lifelong friend, but he can’t help but return the other man’s smile.

_We’re not on the court yet._

“You ready man?”

He pats Trip on the back and says, “Absolutely. I’ve been waiting to get my revenge on you since Indian Wells.”

Trip guffaws, shoving him playfully and shaking his head in mirth. “C’mon man, that was six years ago!”

“You know how long I can hold a grudge Trip.

The comment earns another laugh and back-pat from Trip. “Do I ever. Alright Fitz, let’s get this over with.”

The doors open and the cramped tunnel is flooded with light as the cheers of the stadium begin to filter in. He gives Trip one final fist bump before walking towards the exit.

_Time to be a winner or a loser._

-O-

“I can’t believe _you_ out-sliced _me_. Jesus Fitz, I think you hit more drop-shots today than all of your other matches combined.”

He can’t see Trip’s face, his own firmly squished into the opening of the massage table he’s laying on, but he has an inkling that his friend is still a bit shocked by the strategy he’d used in their match. “Yeah well, I figured taking advantage of that bum knee of yours was my only shot at victory.”

Trip’s chuckle is muffled, his face also pressed into the pillow of his respective table, but it takes the heat from the words that follow. “Damn man, that’s cold.”

Fitz flips onto his back with a groan, his past injury flaring after the day' match, and breathes in the steam of the room. “ _That_ is tennis”

His eyes are closed but he can hear Trip shift beside him, flipping over with a grunt that Fitz can’t help but wince at. He _had_ hit an exceptional number of dropshot-lob combinations in the hopes that his friend’s injury might hinder his ability to return, and, now that their match is over, he feels quite guilty for his aggressive playing.

“Okay, who are you and what have you done with Fitz?”

He shifts his head in his friend’s direction, shooting Trip a look that he hopes conveys how puzzling he finds the question. “What do you mean?”

Trip laughs with his customary easy grin. “Man, you’re a great tennis player, you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t, but today… you were ruthless buddy. It was like nothing existed other than you and the ball.”

“I dunno I guess… I guess I’ve just finally figured out how to get out of my own head.”

He’s not about to say what it is that _got him_ out of his head, and his evasiveness must be obvious since Trip gives another chuckle. “Hey man, it’s great. Just… kind of sudden. Came out of nowhere you know? One minute you look like you’re about to puke at a press conference and the next minute you’re…” 

Trip stops speaking and Fitz winces at the silence, swearing he can actually _hear_ the cogs begin to turn in his friend’s head. He sees the other man suddenly pop up into a sitting position and doesn’t even have to look over to know that there’s a manic grin on his face.  “And the _next_ minute you’re hopping into a Benz with tinted windows and a hand that probably handled _more_ than just tennis balls.”

Fitz lets out a choking noise at the comment, turning to his friend in surprise as he says, “Trip! What the hell?! You’ve been spending too much time with Hunter.”

Usually comparing Trip to Hunter would cause the former to list all of the differences between them, but all it does now is magnify the knowing look on his face. “Am I wrong?”

_No, but I’m certainly not going to give you the satisfaction of proving you right._

“That’s… that’s… not… That’s beside the point!”

The look on Trip’s face is positively gleeful and Fitz hopes that the steam in the room is enough to marginally hide the embarrassed flush that is spreading across his body. “My man! I _knew_ there had to be a trigger. You’ve been Fitz 2.0 all week!”

“Was the original model really so terrible?”

“Absolutely, both in personality _and_ skill.”

Fitz grabs the towel hanging around his neck and swats Trip with it, smacking it against his friend’s arm and revelling in the sound of fabric hitting skin. He flops back down on the table and resolutely closes his eyes, hoping that Trip will take the hint and put an end to the conversation. He doesn’t want to lie to his friend but Jemma’s desire to keep things on the down low is something that he couldn’t forget even if he’d tried.

It’s silent for a few long moments before a snicker echoes in the room and Trip mutters, “Looks like more than just your tennis game has improved this week.”

-O-

He and Trip part at the hotel after Trip makes certain that Fitz understands that, just because he’s knocked out of the tournament, doesn’t mean he’s going anywhere. It’s something that Fitz is eternally grateful for until the other man tells him that he’s reserved a practice court for 7 o’clock the next morning and plans on making a protein shake for the both of them.

By the time he drags his body into his room, the effects of the day have fully caught up to him and Fitz feels a dull ache from his head to his toes. He kicks off his shoes, dropping his equipment unceremoniously on the floor, before snatching an ice pack from the mini freezer, clicking PLAY on the blinking message machine, and collapsing face-first onto his bed.

The first message is from the Country Club and he hastily shoves a pillow over his head to tune out the nasally voices of Kensington’s well-wishers. The second gets a genuine smile out of him, his mother’s voice letting him know how proud of him she is while Lance shouts congratulations in the background, and the third…

He _just_ begins to hear Jemma Simmons gloat about her sound advice when a _different_ sound permeates through the room. The rapping at the door drowns out the rest of Jemma’s message and only seems to grow louder with each second that Fitz refuses to answer. He heaves himself off the bed with a groan, letting the ice packs fall to a heap on the floor, and shuffles his way to the door. He doesn’t bother checking who’s on the other side, a clear mistake considering the beaming brunette that greets him when he swings the door open.

“Hiya Fitzy.”

“Fuck.”


	14. Dun Dun Daisy

Daisy rolls her eyes, shoving past him with a huff, and says, “Is that any way to greet your agent?” as she moves into the room. Fitz watches in stunned silence as she flops onto the bed and snatches the remote as though this is still a normal thing for her to do. The nonchalant manner in which Daisy is now comfortably lounging on his bed causes a flash of anger to hit him and he shuts the door with a bit more force than is strictly necessary before turning to face her fully.

“To be fair, I didn’t actually think you still  _ were  _ my agent… you know, considering I’m still waiting for you to return my call from  _ a year ago. _ ”

Daisy at least has the dignity to wince, likely at both his words and his tone, and she shuts off the TV with a sigh before twisting to sit cross-legged and facing him on the mattress.

“Okay, I’m going to be honest Fitz, it’s hard to be an agent for somebody who doesn’t actually  _ do  _ anything.”

Her words sting and he leans back against the hotel door, crossing his arms with a petulant frown. “Nice, that’s real nice Daisy.”

_ This  _ gets an eyeroll from her and Fitz momentarily wonders why all the women in his life seem to be so fond of conveying their exasperation with him through the ocular movement.

“I’m sorry Fitz! I've been insanely busy and, honestly, I’m not a miracle worker, okay? Your career was essentially dead after the Ward fiasco and I can’t sell something that doesn’t exist. It’s not like the offers were rolling on in anyway, if they had been, I would have  _ told _ you. But they weren’t and… I have other clients.”

He bristles slightly at the dead career comment but refrains from pointing out that he’s already made it farther, in this tournament and in general, than most were expecting him to. “And I assume these other clients are all here and this is just a sympathy visit?”

Daisy scoffs at that, leaning back on her arms and shooting him a droll look that he’d been on the receiving end of too many times to count. “I don’t  _ do  _ sympathy visits Fitz. I do, ‘Let’s hangout and get drunk,’ visits or, ‘Hey you’ve actually turned yourself around and suddenly people love you again,’ visits.”

Fitz collapses on the small chair in the corner with a sigh, the exhaustion of the day seemingly multiplying in his debatably  _ former  _ agent’s presence. “I’m not really looking to get wasted before the fourth round of Wimbledon Daisy.”

A delighted smile works its way across Daisy’s face and she leans forward on the bed, posture shifting from entirely relaxed to somewhat poised. “Good, because I’m not here to get wasted.”

As annoyed as Fitz is with her for the months of silence (save for a pathetically brief Happy Birthday/Christmas joint email and the occasional cat meme),  _ this  _ sparks his interest and he straightens against the wall with a raised brow. “Well if you’re not here to get wasted…”

Daisy grins with a nod and says, “It must mean that somebody’s interested in you…”  Her eyes flicker to the open box of Trojans sticking out from under a pile of clothes and her happy smile immediately shifts to one of mischief, “Maybe  _ two  _ somebodies…”

Fitz shoots her a look that he hopes conveys how much this topic of conversation is  _ not  _ one that they’ll broach anytime soon and moves to kick a pair of shorts to fully conceal the evidence of his extracurricular activities.  The curiosity is written all over Daisy’s face and Fitz knows that the only way to avoid slipping and revealing something about Jemma is to shift the topic back to his friend’s area of expertise.

“Listen, I’ve just knocked one of my best mates out of Wimbledon, I definitely fucked up my back again, and I’m bloody starving. I don’t have the energy for you just yet so how ‘bout we grab some of those cucumber sandwiches you always complain about from the tea room and discuss whatever it is that’s brought you back into my life.”

He gestures towards the door and Daisy springs from the bed without hesitation. She moves to meet him at the door but, before opening it, she gives him a tight hug that he hadn’t realized he’d needed or wanted. When she pulls back, all of the things that her sarcasm and quips never say is written plainly on her face and Fitz gives her a slight nod in response, ruffling her hair affectionately and gesturing down the hall.

“Lead the way.”

-O-

He makes his way through an impressive dozen finger sandwiches before Daisy’s excited vibrating finally makes him crack. Snatching another from the platter, he bites into it while leaning back in his chair and gesturing for Daisy to have her say. “What have you got then?”

She grabs her own sandwich with a grin, dutifully plucking off the cucumber before shoving the bread in her mouth and picking up her phone. Fitz watches as her fingers fly over the keyboard and waits patiently until Daisy looks up again and launches into her spiel.  “A hoity toity whiskey company that wants an actual Scot to be the face of their new scotch…” Fitz nods appreciatively at that, already knowing Hunter’s next Christmas gift is sorted. “...a new Nikon camera that the imbeciles in their marketing department are pushing as, ‘the prodigy of photography.’ Obviously they want a prodigy  _ using  _ The Prodigy….” He rolls his eyes at the moniker but nods again in easy acceptance of the sponsorship, “...and lastly, I think you’re going to like this one… Cadbury is doing a new commercial and want you to be in it. Something about putting eggs in a feeder and you whacking them as the Easter bunny or something.”

Daisy seems particularly pleased with that one but Fitz can’t help but blanch at the vision of him dressed in a bunny suit and hitting Cadbury eggs at unassuming children. Daisy seems to pick up on his skepticism because her nose wrinkles as she seems to deflate slightly in her chair at his lack of enthusiasm.

“Okay, admittedly that one’s a little lame but I  _ did  _ confirm that, in addition to a significant paycheck, you’ll get Cadbury for life. For  _ life  _ Fitz.”

The assumption that he’d do anything for an unlimited supply of chocolate, combined with the waggling of Daisy’s eyebrows, draws a laugh out of him and Fitz moves on from the sandwiches to the biscuits beside them.

“C’mon Fitz, you know I’d never tell you about an opportunity if I honestly didn’t think you should take it. These are actually some that even some of the bigger-name athletes and celebrities might receive.”

She extends her phone out to him so he can scan through the offers for himself and his brows raise of their own accord when he catches sight of the figures being extended. The Nikon one in particular has him doing a low whistle and, despite the fact that he’s reading them with his own eyes, Fitz can’t quite wrap his head around the fact that these are  _ legitimate. _

“This is absurd. Nobody would  _ actually  _ pay that much to have  _ me  _ be the face of whatever it is they’re selling.”

He hands the phone back to Daisy, who takes it with an incredulous look that makes it seem as though  _ he  _ is the mad one in this situation.

“Umm… I realize that you’re basically a ninety-year-old recluse who refuses to use  _ any  _ of the social media accounts I’ve set up for you... but, Fitz, even you should know that, other than Watson and Simmons… you’re like the most beloved person in the UK right now.” 

Fitz lets out a snort of disbelief at that but finds himself wavering in his doubts as he takes in Daisy’s serious expression. She certainly doesn’t seem to be having a laugh and, upon reflection, the crowd  _ did  _ seem rather pleased with his win this afternoon. So much so that when he returned to the hotel earlier… some of the fans and reporters outside had actually called  _ his  _ name.

The realization that he might not be as inconspicuous in this tournament now that he’s actually advancing causes something to constrict in his chest and his throat to tighten. He thinks back to when he was at his absolute prime and feels the slow wave of panic begin to wash over him as the reminder of what it felt like when things came crashing down.

Sure, he’s marginally tolerated  _ now _ but in three days time when he inevitably loses to Britain’s  _ preferred  _ player? He’s not sure he wants to deal with the British population’s rapid shift of emotion when he’s no longer an individual who might potentially bring honor to the nation.

“I don’t know Daisy…”

She somehow manages to roll her eyes while simultaneously contorting the rest of her face to seem sympathetic to his uncertainty. She snags her own biscuit from the platter and stays hovering somewhere over the table so that she can force him to maintain eye contact.

“Look there’s no pressure to actually accept any of these, just… don’t pass on them without actually  _ thinking  _ about it first. I’m just trying to put some money in your pocket before you choke again and the offers go back to being nonexistent.”

He glances around quickly to make sure nobody is paying attention before turning back to Daisy and flipping her off. “Joke’s on you because there won’t be much opportunity  _ to  _ choke, thanks for that by the way, because this is it for me. I’m calling it quits after the tournament’s through.”

A small amount of satisfaction flickers through Fitz at the look of surprise on Daisy’s face but disappears the moment she manages to school her features.

“Okay… okay. All the more reason to sign a contract or two while you still have options.”

He groans at her persistence, letting his head fall into his hands and waiting for her to continue listing all of the reasons why he needs to act fast.

“Fitz, I love you and I know that, despite the frankly astronomical toll the past few years have taken on you, you love this sport. So I’m sorry that you’re losing that, honest I am, but just because you won’t be on the circuit anymore doesn’t mean your life is over. I’m just trying to give you a nice monetary safety net so that you can find something else you’re equally passionate instead of settling for being something lame like an inspirational speaker or country club tennis pro.”

Naturally, Fitz can’t contain his laughter at that.

He thinks about old-lady Robinson, likely sipping on a mimosa at Kenzington, and wonders what kind of facial reaction Daisy would have were she ever forced to interact with any of the uptight retirees at the club. The laughter only doubles when he takes in the startled look on her face and only when he feels tears in his eyes does Fitz manage to get control of himself.

“What… what just happened?”

He almost starts up again when he sees Daisy’s arms raised in borderline terror but keeps his composure long enough to reply. “Don’t worry about it. Send me the info and I promise I’ll look at it. Now, distract me with something else.”

“Okay deal. What are you wearing tonight?”

“Daisy, I love you but I really think we’re better off as friends.”

Were it coming from anyone else, he might be offended by the gagging that his comment invoked, but it’s entirely amusing coming from Daisy due almost entirely to her dedication. He’s seen this bit before and the first time had him  _ actually  _ rushing to a waste bin because he’d thought she really was going to be ill. Now he finds that it’s best just to wait her out.

After she’s acted her fill, Daisy gives him an amused grin and tosses her napkin across the table at him. “Seriously though, what are you wearing?”

Fitz is actually quite proud of how, dare he say  _ effortlessly,  _ he snatches the napkin from the air and sticks his tongue out as he drops it unceremoniously he drops it atop the table as he answers Daisy’s question. “I don’t know, sweats and a t-shirt probably? Same thing I always wear to bed. What’s it to you?”

Daisy arches a brow at that and crosses her arms sternly. “Let me rephrase: what are you wearing to the sponsor soirée tonight?”

He immediately blanches at the mention of the black-tie affair and is careful to look Daisy in the eyes when he responds. “Let me  _ not  _ rephrase: sweats and a t-shirt since I have no plans on attending.”

“Fitz, as your friend but mostly your agent, I’m telling you: you have to attend.”

“You can’t just come  _ waltzing  _ back here and command me left and right…”

“You’re halfway through the tournament with three serious offers on the table…”

“...not gonna put on a monkey suit just to kiss the arses of stuffy…

“...at the very least you need to make an appearance and…”

“...nobody will even  _ notice  _ if I don’t show up…”

“...free food and free booze is worth an hour of shmoozing...”

“...I don’t even  _ have  _ a tux and…”

“...literally  _ everyone  _ will be there. All of the sponsors and all of the players and...”

“Wait everyone? Which players?”

Daisy pauses mid-inhale, eyes blinking quickly at the abrupt end to their competitive talking, before a mischievous grin spreads its way across her face. Fitz  _ knows  _ what her sly smile is about, having immediately regretted showing his proverbial hand so soon, and slinks into his chair in the hopes that he might disappear into the posh upholstery.

“Why the sudden interest Fitz? Got some unused condoms stashed away that you’re hoping will  _ serve _ their ultimate purpose?”

“Daisy…”

“Looking for a new  _ ball handler _ ?”

“Oh my god.”

“Want to partake in a little  _ mixed doubles _ ?”

“Please stop.”

“Looking to make a  _ racket? _ ”

“I could have sworn your personal relationship with Ward ended the same time your professional one did.”

For a brief moment he regrets bringing up  _ that  _ disaster but feels the tension leave him when Daisy brushes him off with a wave of the hand and a, “Pricks are temporary, puns are forever.”

Fitz chuffs out a laugh at that, biting at his thumbnail before looking up again. He doesn’t want to vocalize the question, completely uninterested in another round of puns meant to embarrass him, but he’s desperate to know just who will be showing up tonight. Sponsors aren’t a reason to go in his eyes but if  _ Jemma  _ is going to be there… perhaps it would be worth squeezing into a suit and making small talk.

Thankfully, Daisy must have gotten her fill of teasing in because, reading the unasked question on his face, she coyly twirls her hair and says, “Not that I know who it is that you might be looking for… but I will say that  _ all  _ players still in the tournament will be at this party- even the top-favored. Romanoff, Rogers and Carter, Daniels, Simmons, Watson. All of your competition and then some.”

Fitz isn’t positive but he  _ swears  _ Daisy stresses  _ Simmons  _ more than anyone else and he has to make a conscious effort not to react.

“Hmm… well, maybe I’ll make an  _ appearance.  _ Just… just long enough for you to make me suck up to the  _ right  _ people and grab some champagne.”

“More like grab some ass.”

“What was that?”

“I said, ‘more like grab some  _ apps.’  _ We both know you care more about the food than the booze.”

“Right.”

“Let’s talk suits.”

“Let's not.”

“Maybe you should get a boutonniere…”

“A bout… what on  _ Earth  _ would I need a...”

“Perhaps a Daisy or, better yet, an  _ English Rose _ .”

Fitz stops immediately at Daisy’s words, mouth dropping open and alarm bells going off in his head. He frantically tries to figure out what to say, what believable denial he can come up with, but draws a complete and utter blank. The panic that seems to flow through him must be evident because Daisy merely shrugs her shoulders and says, “Just a thought,” before sipping at her tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of COURSE it was Daisy, c'mon people. Also, starting next week I MIGHT have to start posting once a week rather than my usual twice a week because we're reaching the point where the posting is catching up to the actual writing!


	15. Cocktails and Weenies

Thankfully there is not a boutonniere in sight as Fitz dresses in his evening attire later that night. His lunch with Daisy had ended with him red in the face due to a considerable amount of less-than-subtle allusions, ranging from an eager endorsement of Golden Girls to an impassioned description of _Jenna,_ the heroine in her latest must-read. He’d almost cried in relief when her cellphone rang with some other client in need of her attention, hastily promising he’d wear whatever suit she sent to his room before booking it for a quick escape and short nap.

Now, he’s straightening the Windsor knot of his tie and casting furtive glances at the clock, trying to remember what Daisy had told him about the proper amount of lateness one should arrive to a party. Not that he actually cares. He’s been known to show up to events too early _and_ too late, never quite figuring out that sweet spot. But he _knows_ that Jemma Simmons will inevitably make her entrance at the prime time and he’d very much like to time his arrival as close to hers as possible.

Though, the 2AM start to the event is almost enough for him to skip the whole thing altogether.

While _somewhat_ understandable, wanting to be as including as an exclusionary event _can_ be, the desire to get as many players in attendances as possible is a real nuisance for those like him who would far prefer staying in bed watching telly and falling asleep at a reasonable hour.

After another ten minutes pacing his room and anxiously checking his appearance in the bathroom mirror ( _What was Daisy thinking sticking him in a suit this tight?)_ Fitz resigns himself to the evening ahead and makes his way down to the lobby. The valet is already waiting when he reaches the hotel’s entrance, hand outstretched with his car keys dangling from a finger, and Fitz both thanks and tips him profusely before hopping in and driving towards the last place he’d expect to find himself on a London evening in the midst of tourist season.

-O-

It’s a quick drive to the Eye but there’s a swarm of cars and people just out front that leads to an additional ten minutes spent in the car waiting to get close enough for Fitz to hand over his keys to the bored teen acting as valet.

The entrance is packed with people looking to get in and Fitz feels a bit relieved when he’s ushered into the event without so much as having to check his name against a list. He weaves his way through the crowd of people, craning his neck in an attempt to spot someone he knows, or can at the very least _tolerate._ Trip had promised he’d make an appearance but while Fitz prefers ducking into a corner and avoiding all human interaction, Trip is a social butterfly who will likely make certain to chat up every person in sight. Not keen on being dragged behind his sociable friend, Fitz opts to instead seek him out a bit later when most of the small chat is over and done with.

A waiter passes with a platter of hors d’oeuvres that Fitz is pretty certain are just sausage rolls with American bacon wrapped around them and a fleck of green stuff to make them appear fancy, and he snags five while keeping his eyes out for Daisy. He polishes them off, along with a handful of mini quiches before he spots her chatting up Natasha Romanoff at the bar. He walks up to them with a smile that he’s certain looks as forced as it feels and gives a small wave when Daisy spots him approaching.

“Fitz!”

Nat turns around at Daisy’s shout and the predatory smile she gives him causes a zing of nerves to shoot through his body. He gives a slight nod in acknowledgement before motioning at the bar tender and promptly ordering a double of the strongest scotch he won’t have to pay for.

“I’m surprised to see you here Fitz, didn’t think this was really your scene.”

He realizes that the statement is likely more insult than pure observation, but he decides to take it in stride. “It’s _not._ If I had my way I’d be asleep right now but… _someone_ threatened bodily harm if I didn’t show.”

He jerks his neck in Daisy’s direction and is pleased when Nat lets out a genuine laugh, ruffling his hair affectionately before mentioning something about Clint being exactly the same. “Actually, I should probably go find him before he does something embarrassing. Daisy, pleasure as always. Fitz… nice to actually see you.”

She leaves with a graceful spin, the red beading of her dress glinting beneath the fairy lights spread about, and Fitz watches her go with his brows raised in surprise. He turns back to Daisy and says, “I’m pretty sure that’s the longest conversation we’ve ever had.”

Daisy laughs, nodding along with an, “I’m not surprised.” She leans in and gives him a quick hug before pushing him away and raking her eyes up and down his form. “You’re looking good Fitz, c’mon, give me a spin.” She makes a twirling motion with her finger and Fitz doesn’t hesitate to swat it away with a chastising look.

“Not on your life.”

She looks as though she’s about to provide a rebuttal when a voice cuts through the crowd with an enthused, “Daisy!”

Fitz feels his heart quicken at the sound, recognizing the English lilt immediately, and turns his head around just in time to see Jemma brush past him and pull Daisy into an affectionate hug. His mouth drops open at their easy camaraderie and he suddenly remembers that Jemma had been very clear that, though she may be a bit frosty with tennis players, she does in fact have _friends._ The merciless teasing that Daisy had handed to him earlier was entirely too specific to be chalked up to her own observational skills, and Fitz suddenly wonders if perhaps he might have been the topic of some… _girl talk._

When they part from their hug, the two women giggle happily before turning to him in unison with twin smiles of mirth.

Fitz swallows loudly at the way Jemma’s eyes make a slow scan of his body and hastily downs the rest of his scotch to give reason for his now flushed cheeks. She gives him a quick wink that has him motioning for the bartender again and the pleased smile that breaks out on her face has him, not for the first time tonight, wishing he were _back in bed._

With her arm linked through Daisy’s, Jemma tugs the other woman closer and conspiratorially says, “Aren’t you going to introduce us Dais?”

“Oh of _course._ Where are my manners? Jemma, this is Fitz. Leo Fitz.”

Jemma looks back at him in mock surprise, stepping forward with her hand outstretched and doing an overall poor job of being subtle about _anything._ “Not _the_ Fitz, Leo Fitz.”

The familiar exchange draws a smile from him and he steps forwards, grasping her hand in his own and doing his utmost to appear unaffected. “Lucky for the world… I’m pretty sure there’s only one of me.”

Jemma smiles, letting out a small tut and applying pressure to his hand that sends a fair bit of blood rushing decidedly south, a reminder of what it feels like when she applies pressure _elsewhere._ He drops her hand at this thought, realizing he’s already been holding it longer than is socially acceptable, and flexes his fingers at his side in an attempt to stop the tingling sensation creeping up his arm.

“Now that’s certainly not true. I know what you can do with those hands Fitz, I’m certain the world could do with more men like you…”

Fitz’s eyes widen at the comment and, though he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Jemma, the slight choking sound coming from his agent makes it clear he isn’t the only one who’s heard her.

“I mean, your footwork is impressive, but when your serve’s on it’s certainly your best… asset.”

Daisy snorts into her wine at that and the enormous grin that her glass is failing to hide only confirms that Jemma’s lack of subtlety is entirely intentional. Apparently only _he_ is meant to remain mum when it comes to their off-court activities because this brief exchange has all but confirmed the fact that Daisy is entirely aware of what they’ve been up to. He glances quickly between the women in front of him, narrowing his eyes at their feigned looks of innocence and trying to suss out how he should play this.

“Yes well, your _assets_ are equally impressive Simmons. The way you can handle a ball is… truly a marvel.”

Thankfully, rather than a slap to the face, his comment draws a delighted, if surprised, laugh from Simmons and a groan from Daisy.

“Okay, let’s step away from the bar before the flying sparks start a fire.” She loops an arm through each of theirs and begins tugging them towards the loading platforms of the wheel. After Jemma ducks her head behind her back to flash him a grin, Daisy breaks the silence and says, “Hey, if you guys get married, being an agent to both of you, I’m pretty sure I get 10% of your wedding gifts.”

Fitz shoots Daisy a stern glare, not wanting her comment to scare off the woman who has made it _very_ clear that whatever’s going on between them is strictly casual. Though… their past few rendezvous _have_ felt a bit more like dates rather than meetings between friends-with-benefits. Still he doesn’t want to risk ending their relationship, whatever it may be, and he _especially_ doesn’t want it to be because of some joking comment made by Daisy. Though, he supposes he’s just as worried to hear Jemma flatly deny the possibility and reaffirm the casualness of their situation. He tenses slightly and keeps his eyes firmly affixed in front of him as he awaits for Jemma’s response.

“By that logic, you get 10% of diaper duty if we wind up having kids.”

The comment, coupled with the preceding laughter, causes Fitz to whip his head in surprise and stare at Jemma in stunned silence. He knows she’s kidding, knows that her words aren’t something she said for anything other than a laugh, but the fact that she’s said them at all causes a flicker of hope to bloom through him. Were any other woman to joke about marriage and having children after twoish weeks of sex and pseudo dates, Fitz likely would have run for the hills.

Were someone to have told him that he would _like_ hearing about marrying and procreating with a woman he’s been involved with in some capacity for less than a fortnight, he likely would have laughed.

And were _anyone_ to tell him that _Jemma_ _Simmons_ was the woman with whom he’d be envisioning such a future, he would have promptly admitted them into the nearest insane asylum.

Yet, here he is. Staring at the most famous female athlete in the world, knowing what she looks like _naked,_ and envisioning a life of running after their curly-haired toddlers while she watches on in amusement.

“I think we broke him.”

Daisy’s snicker snaps him from his reverie and Fitz feels his cheeks redden when he glances over and notes the looks that she and Jemma are sending him. Though both seem utterly amused by his reaction, there’s an undefinable glint in Jemma’s eyes that makes his breath catch.

"Nah, just trying to imagine you changing a diaper. Not sure it’d end well.”

Daisy gives an affronted gasp and opens her mouth to argue when she suddenly straightens up and looks at something to their left. Both Fitz and Jemma follow her gaze and, when he catches sight of Melinda May walking towards them, Fitz understands the rapid shift from teasing friend to utmost professional.

“And _that_ is your cue to book it. I’ll catch up with you two later… enjoy the view.”

Fitz is _about_ to do the right thing and offer to come up with some emergency that’ll save Daisy from a chat with the lioness of tennis, but then he feels a cold hand slip into his and tug him past the people waiting to board the Eye and straight onto the next passenger capsule. He sees the glare on May’s face just as the door to the capsule shuts and swallows loudly when her frown remains in place as the wheel carries himself, Jemma, and a bunch of other people away.

_Poor Daisy._

“Dodged _that_ bullet.”

He can’t help but grin at Jemma’s muttering, happily following her as she tugs him to one end of the pod and as far away from the schmoozing people as possible. He ducks down slightly so nobody overhears him when he murmurs in her ear, “Yeah but unlike most, _that_ bullet will still be waiting to cross me off when this joyride is over.”

Jemma snickers and shifts his arm so that it’s loosely wrapped around her waist as they lean against the window and look in the direction opposite of May. “Such a spoilsport. C’mon Fitz, do as Daisy says and _enjoy the view._ ”

He grins at the jazz fingers she shoots in the direction of the skyline and decides to take advantage of being with Jemma, who seems just as happy to be with him, and play dumb. “Just to clarify, by _view…_ are you referring to yourself or London? Because this city is great and all but…”

Being pressed against her means that he can feel the vibrations of her laughter and he feels infinitely proud that she seems to do quite a bit of laughing whenever they spend time together. Not for the first time, he wonders how Jemma’s public persona can be so immensely different from the woman that he finds so quick to laugh and quicker to joke.

She turns around and leans back against the glass, his hand moving to press against the observation window while hers pats his chest. “Okay Casanova, take it easy.”

He finds that, when it’s not a clear indication that she’s about to mess with him, he quite likes the mischief in Jemma’s smiles. It’s as though she’s sharing a secret with him and, though he has no idea what it is, he feels almost giddy at the fact that there’s something that at least _Jemma_ thinks only she and him are privy to. He can count the freckles that are smattered across her nose and feels sappier than he’s ever been in his life when he thinks that they’re a far preferable sight to the flickering London skyline behind her. The sane part of his brain is telling him to keep such thoughts to himself but, whether it’s because of the alcohol or the generally romantic atmosphere, he decides to be honest.

“You know what’s really pathetic? I actually kinda meant it. You umm… you look really beautiful tonight.”

However much he enjoys her mischievous grins pales in comparison to how Fitz feels about the smile that Jemma is now giving him. Her eyes soften at his words and he swears that her cheeks are pinker than they were a few moments ago. She looks at him with such fondness that Fitz suddenly feels as though he’s _already_ won the best thing at Wimbledon.

“That’s not pathetic.”

Her voice is soft, so much so that Fitz has to lean closer to hear her correctly, but her hands feel like a steady weight where they’re resting on his chest. Though they have slept together, Fitz feels as though this is the most intimate that they’ve ever been. Despite the din of chatter behind them, it feels as though he and Jemma are blissfully alone, high above the city, without a care in the world. It’s as though this night has erased the line that Jemma had carefully drawn between them and stripped her of whatever mental roadblocks had made her so adamant to never be vulnerable.

Emboldened by this emotional shift, Fitz feels brave enough to let his fingers run along her cheek and verify what it is she hadn’t really said. “It’s not?”

She closes her eyes, leaning into his palm, and begins shaking her head as she says, “No.”

He waits until her eyes flutter open to respond, because he thinks it’s important for her to see the luminescent smile that the reflection in the window is showing him. “Good.

Jemma gives a firm nod at that and they share a long moment of sappy looks and dopey smiles before she leans back once again and lets her eyes flicker over his torso. “While we’re talking about looking good… I have to say, I’m glad to see you wore the suit. Daisy told me you’d probably opt for jeans and a ratty Jynx tee instead.”

He lets out a groan at that, head tilting upwards as his eyes roll. “Oh I did that _one_ time…”

Jemma laughs in astonishment, pinching his hip and admonishing him with unrestrained glee. “It was the _ESPYs_ Fitz! Who wears jeans and a t-shirt to the ESPYs?!”

“I was _twenty!_ Surely you made a few bad fashion choices at twenty.”

Jemma scoffs in mock affront, arching a brow and moving slightly so that her features are somehow amplified beneath the light of the capsule. “I happened to be _quite_ the fashionable, nubile, young prodigy at twenty thank you very much.”

“Oh _I_ see. Perfect Jemma Simmons has _always_ been perfect.”

He holds up his hands in surrender and laughs at the condescending nod that Jemma gives him. “Too right!”

He chuffs at that and rolls his eyes at her stubbornness, ready to keep riling her up until he notices her stiffen. Her posture changes immediately, back straightening, and any trace of amusement disappears as she looks at something over his shoulder. She shifts slightly as though she thinks his slight frame can hide her from whatever it is that has her on edge and ducks her head slightly so that she can mutter under her breath. “Asshole incoming.”

“Wh…”

Fitz never gets to finish his question because the next thing he knows he’s being nudged to the side by Will Daniels, wearing a perfectly tailored suit and more cologne than should be permitted while in a literal _inescapable box in the sky._

The other man doesn’t even look in his direction, too focused on Jemma to apparently acknowledge that he’d just shoved her companion aside. “Jem! Thought that was you. What’s the deal? I’ve left you like a million messages.”

“Will. Pleasure as always. Do you know Fitz?”

It only lasts a fraction of a second but the slight widening of her eyes as she flicks them in his direction is all the confirmation Fitz needs that Jemma has zero desire to partake in any sort of conversation with Daniels. Not that _he’s_ particularly keen to either but, he supposes there are worse things he could be asked to do for a girl he fancies.

Unfortunately, her question actually does draw Will’s attention to him and Fitz feels the urge to squirm under the gaze of the other man. It’s as though he’s smelling something as unpleasant as his own cologne while simultaneously watching his parents have sex and Fitz wonders how _he_ could produce a reaction of such utter disgust.

“Yeah, San Jose right?”

Though mostly impassive in his question, Fitz is actually surprised that Daniels remembers him at all. He certainly doesn’t _like_ the other man but he finds that a small part of him has a begrudging respect for him. “Uh… yeah. Quite… quite the match.”

“Uh _yeah,_ which I like, _won._ ” Will rolls his eyes and lets out a snort of laughter, glancing at Jemma as though doing her a favor by letting her watch him embarrass Fitz.

_Never mind then._

“Fitz actually just made it through to the Quarters. Who knows, maybe you two might have a rematch.”

There’s a haughtiness to Jemma’s comment that makes it seem like more of a dig than a simple fact and the innocent smile on her face makes Fitz seriously consider kissing her right then and there. But Will seems to hear the underlying picking-of-sides as well and has a far different reaction to his own.

He glances between them before breaking out into laughter and pointing at Fitz while fixing his gaze on Jemma. “Oh my god you’re _screwing_ him, aren’t you?”

Jemma doesn’t so much as blink but her chin juts out slightly as she silently stands her ground.

“Him? The guy’s a _loser._ What is he like, _forty?_ ”

“ _What_?! I’m four years _younger_ than you…”

“He’s not even _ranked_ Jemma. You used to have _some_ standards.”

“That’s not…”

“But hey, it’s just _casual,_ right? God, I guess the rumors about you are true, you really will give it up for any…”

He’s not quite sure _how_ it happens but the next thing Fitz is aware of is the fact that his hand is throbbing and Will is flat on the floor. The other riders move to help him up but all Fitz can do is gape, eyes flitting between Daniels, Jemma, and his own clenched fist.

It’s not until a series of flashes go off that Fitz realizes that their ride has, quite literally, come full circle and their capsule has arrived at the disembarking platform. A crowd of onlookers has gathered, likely wondering what sort of commotion has occurred on board, and Fitz casts another glance at the man he’d just _punched_ who is now unsteadily rising to his feet.

He vaguely hears, “You son of a…” before Jemma is once again tugging on his hand and shouting, “Time to go!”

She yanks him out of the capsule and off the platform, pulling him through the crowd and ignoring the cacophony of shouts that now surround them. Both of their names are being called, and Fitz is almost certain that he’ll go blind from the cameras that are flashing in his face, but Jemma just keeps moving until they’ve left the event completely.

The photographers’ shouts of, “Fitz! Simmons!” and most notably, “FitzSimmons!” follow them as they make a mad dash to his car, which is miraculously parked in a spot primed for a hasty exit- the key already in the ignition. When he spots it, Fitz picks up the pace so that _he_ is now the one guiding _Jemma_ and all but pushes her the final few meters _._ He hops in the convertible and waits for Jemma to shut her own door before he peels out of the space and leaves all of the people shouting their names behind.

He’s still a bit stunned by the turn of events but the adrenaline coursing through his system makes him feel more alive than he has in ages. A bright laugh comes from his left and he glances over to see Jemma facing him with an almost manic grin.

“I’ve never had someone fight for my honor before!”

“Yep, I’m just your typical knight in ratty Jynx shirts.”

“It was _actually_ a bit thrilling.”

“Real...mmmf.”

He gets cut off when Jemma grabs his face and pulls him in for a searing kiss that sends a pleasant heat throughout his body. He matches her nip for bite, groaning when her tongue does something that makes his toes curl, only pulling away at the sound of a blaring horn.

Fitz returns his eyes to the road just in time to realize he’s now driving on the _wrong side_ and yank the wheel to get back on course. A new, “you almost just died,” kind of adrenaline is now flooding his body and he shouts over the engine and wind, “Bloody _menace._ You’re going to get us killed before we even reach wherever it is we’re meant to be heading!”

Jemma throws her head back in laughter, one hand lolling over the door and moving in the wind while the other shifts to rest on his knee. She looks inordinately happy when she turns to look at him, eyes alight and smile taking up most of her face, and he’s certain that his own expression is a perfect mirror.

“Just keep driving Fitz, I’ll tell you where to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is the start of the once-a-week postings! Hopefully it'll only last this week/next week/MAYBE the following because I don't have much more to write and, once it's all finished, I'll go back to posting on our standard Monday/Friday. Just don't want the posted chapters to catch up with the unwritten ones!


	16. The Getaway

As it turns out, Jemma has no plans to return to the Dorchester or any spot in the city at all, and instead guides Fitz out of London entirely.

The drive is silent save for Jemma’s sporadic directions, but it’s the kind of silence that fills Fitz with a feeling of warmth rather than dread and awkwardness. Despite his natural curiosity, he finds that he has no desire to grill Jemma with questions or attempt to figure out where she’s leading him, instead perfectly content to drive through rural England with her hand resting atop his leg.

The disgustingly late, rather _early,_ start-time of the event they’d promptly bailed on means that the sun is just beginning to rise over the horizon when it finally clicks where they’re heading.

He’s about to brag as much to Jemma but when he turns to do so, he finds himself entirely distracted by the way the fuscia glow of the sunrise casts shadows across her face. It’s no surprise that she looks as stunning as she does, she’s in what’s likely an _incredibly_ expensive dress with enough makeup to partially conceal her freckles, but more than that, Fitz is awestruck by how at ease she appears to be.

She’s watching the landscape pass by, a small smile on her face that he catches a glimpse of in the rearview mirror, and seems to be blissfully unconcerned with anything in the world. Her thumb rubs along his hand and Fitz wonders if she’s even aware of the movement, or if it simply feels as natural to her as it does to him.

When he turns onto A23 before she tells him to, Jemma shifts her focus to him in question. For the briefest of moments, Fitz worries that his hunch had been incorrect, that Jemma had actually intended to lead him somewhere _else_ , but after a few seconds her smile widens and she shifts to lean her head on _him_ rather than the door.

Figuring they have about 15 miles on the roadway before he has to shift gears again (only a smattering of cars having been spotted in this early-morning escape) Fitz shifts his arm, wrapping it around Jemma’s shoulders and tugging her along the seat bench so that she can press against him as much as possible. She seems to do so happily, curling into him and extending her legs along the seat, and Fitz releases a contented sigh at the visual.

It’s a few more minutes before he realizes that Jemma has fallen asleep against him and Fitz once again feels simultaneously stunned and thrilled to be privileged enough to find himself in this situation. It’s hard to believe that the woman who had emphasized so many times the casualness of their relationship has now whisked him away to escape the pressures and bustle of Wimbledon.

He struggles to find the rigid, no-nonsense, world-champion in the woman dozing against him and wonders if perhaps this is _Jemma_ rather than Simmons

Since their first encounter, Fitz has viewed Jemma Simmons as a complete and utter enigma, an unsolvable riddle who will likely perplex him forever. While he’s finally settled on her public persona being _predominantly_ a facade, she continues to surprise him in moments like this where all barriers seem to fall in an instant, leaving her as a woman far more vulnerable than she makes herself out to be.

As if she can hear his thoughts, Jemma unconsciously burrows herself further into his side, tucking her head into his chest, and Fitz wonders if, even asleep, she can hear his rapidly beating heart over the roar of the wind. He reckons she’d likely tease him mercilessly were the answer _yes_ and feels that familiar flicker of giddiness that seems to invade him whenever Simmons is present.

Finding himself increasingly distracted by the sight of Jemma curled against him, Fitz focuses on the road and lets his thumb rub circles atop her shoulder against the blazer that she had stolen from him ten minutes into their drive to stave off the chill. The roads are still empty and Fitz revels in the peacefulness that seems to have blanketed England. He’s suddenly overcome by a wave of homesickness and feels a slight pang at the realization that he’s not entirely sure what _home_ even is for him anymore.

His mother’s little house is certainly more of a home than the flat that he spends time at between tournaments, but even _that_ isn’t quite a place Fitz longs for while on the road. His life has been one of instability for as long as he can remember and the weight of Jemma against him sends a pang of longing through him. She more than anyone likely understands what it’s like to have a place to sleep rather than a place to grow, and Fitz finds himself wanting the latter the more he gets to know her.

It's a dangerous thought to have, particularly considering the _casual_ label that has been so firmly affixed to whatever this is, and Fitz takes a steadying breath in attempt to clear his head of visions of impossible futures. He keeps his eyes focused on the road for the last leg of the journey, all too aware that allowing his eyes to stray to the woman next to him will cause his thoughts to stray as well.

After driving in silence for some time, Fitz feels Jemma stir against him just as he takes the exit towards Brighton and smiles down at her as she shifts to look up. The tenderness of her expression is a bit breathtaking to him, and Fitz can only imagine how dopey _he_ looks in this moment.

Likely _very_ if Jemma’s soft giggle is anything to go by.

She stretches languidly on the seat beside him before sitting up and rubbing her eyes adorably and quietly murmuring, “Sorry.”

He glances over her in confusion, tilting his head before asking, “For what?”

Her finger roves idly over the leather of the seat cushion and she glances up at him with a small shrug. “Falling asleep on you. And I mean that in the general _and_ literal sense.”

He grins at her with a shrug before returning his eyes to the road and replying. “I don't mind. It was…”

He thinks that telling Jemma that her falling asleep against him makes the ranks of the top ten moments of his life might freak her out, and let's his voice die in the wind to spare him from making any overt confessions. He thinks he's gotten away with his broken sentence until he glances to his left and sees Jemma giving him a questioning look. When their eyes make contact, she arches an eyebrow and shifts infinitesimally closer as she asks, “It was what?”

There's no use in lying, not that he'd ever successfully manage to, so Fitz just shrugs his shoulders and opts for the truth instead. “Nice. It was nice. Not used to seeing you look quite so relaxed.”

She hums contemplatively at that, eyes taking on a faraway look when he glances over, and Fitz wonders if perhaps even Jemma herself can't think of the last time she was this at ease. He can see the cogs turning in her mind and reaches to lace his fingers through her own in an attempt to bring her back from whatever path her mind is on.

The pensiveness on Jemma’s face doesn't dissipate so much as it _shifts_ when she looks down at their entwined hands, brow furrowing as she watches his thumb rub measured circles against her skin and lips pursing as though she’s trying to solve a puzzle. After a long moment, she settles on squeezing his hand in her own and replacing her head on his shoulder, pointing at random sights along the drive and guiding him towards Brighton.

He follows her directions dutifully, finally pulling into a parking spot on what seems like the central road of the little seaside town and silently turns the car off. Fisting the keys in his hand, Fitz shifts in his seat and looks at Jemma with a tentative, if questioning, smile. “Now what?”

Whatever uncertainty or confusion had been lingering in Jemma’s mind vanishes at his hesitant question and she gives him a toothy grin as she nods across the street and utters perhaps the greatest word he’s heard pass her lips

“Breakfast.”

-O-

They find themselves situated in a tiny corner booth at a diner that Fitz is convinced has existed longer than the town itself, both sharing a bench and breakfast platter between them.

Though, Jemma _certainly_ claims more of the bench, legs somehow thrown over his lap despite being seated _beside_ him, while _Fitz_ is responsible for demolishing the vast majority of the seemingly endless servings of food brought to the table.

Their waitress, a kind old woman who Fitz discovers actually _owns_ the place, cheerfully brings plate after plate to their table, marvelling at his bottomless pit of a stomach and chuckling fondly at the increasingly nauseated expression on Jemma’s face as she watches him eat.

After two plates of rashers and eggs, a heap of hash, and a third round of shortstacks Fitz leans back in the booth with a groan, shutting his eyes with a smile as Jemma’s hand moves to card through his hair.

“I realize we’ve already gone through this but… how you stay so fit while eating like _that_ is truly a marvel.”

When he opens his eyes she's pushing a nearby plate away with a finger, giving him a look when he glances at the half-eaten sausage still sitting in a pool of syrup, before reaching for her tea and taking a slow sip.

Fitz wants to tease her for her description of him, thinking of all the ways he might be able to make her blush for once again calling him fit, but instead decides that he'd far prefer going in another direction. He puffs out his chest, tightening his hold on Jemma’s legs so he doesn't jostle her too much, and waggles his eyebrows in her direction as he leans towards her.

“Well… I _do_ workout.”

The eye roll and snort of laughter is exactly the reaction he'd been hoping for and even her quick swat of his chest seems more of an added bonus than a negative consequence. The smacking kiss she lands on his mouth is a pleasant surprise and Fitz does everything he can to school his features so as not to reveal how much of an impact her strawberry-sweet lips have had on him.

“I suppose we’ll have to add a few sessions then. You'll turn into the Michelin man if you miss even one.”

As always, Jemma bests him without batting an eye and Fitz can only stare at her in open-mouthed interest as she arches her brow, pats his stomach, and makes a deliberate wiggle from where she's mostly perched on his lap. He nods his head slowly and feels his eyes flutter closed when Jemma’s hand proceeds to gently tug at his hair.

“I… I would not be opposed to that.”

Jemma snorts at that, reaching across the table to grab another piece of fruit (the only thing Fitz had steered clear of) and popping a grape into her mouth with a wry grin. “No I bet not.”

His cheeks, already at their baseline “Jemma’s in the vicinity” pink, redden at her knowing look and all he can do is shrug in agreement. Silent though it may be, the movement seems to be the correct answer because Jemma grins up at him and moves to place another chaste kiss on his cheek before returning to her still unfinished fruit plate. It's silent as she munches on the assortment of berries and Fitz is suddenly struck with a need to share something, _anything_ , with her in this moment. “After I won my first match, well after I won the first match that came with a _check_ , my mum told me that I could start buying my own food since I was eating her out of hers.”

He chuckles at the memory, smile softening as he remembers coming home the next day, arms laden with groceries, and proudly presenting his mother with all of the favorite foods that she’d typically ignore in favor of buying the things that her growing boy would need instead.

Jemma laughs at the anecdote, popping a raspberry into her mouth and nodding her head in approval. “Good for her! I can only imagine how much your family spent on groceries. Feeding a teenage boy in _general_ must be a nightmare, feeding _you_ was surely impossible.”

He laughs at her words, largely because they're entirely spot-on. “It used to drive her absolutely batty. She cooked an entire ham once so we’d have lunch meat for the week but I finished it off in a day! And she of course eats like you, mostly rabbit food with the stomach of a bird. She’s always said that my metabolism is just another thing I got from my dad.”

“And what does _he_ have to say about that?”

He stiffens slightly at her question, a slight pang that he hasn't felt in some time reverberating through his chest as he contemplates the easiest way to answer. “Oh he umm… he actually died when I was a kid so… can't exactly confirm or deny I suppose.”

He gives a small shrug to try and deflect the weight of his admission but knows he's failed when he hears Jemma pull in a sharp breath, her fingers faltering where they've been tracing aimless patterns on his neck.

“Fitz I… I’m so sorry.”

His gaze flickers to Jemma and he finds himself stunned by the compassion reflected in her eyes. The genuine melancholy of her expression further proves that she is far from the emotionless woman that so many perceive, and portray, her to be.

He gives another small shrug, tilting his head slightly so that her fingers are once again carding through his hair, and taps his thumb against the shin thrown over his lap. “‘S okay. I mean… obviously it’s not _okay._ It sucks but… I just meant… I was three when it happened so I… it’s just not a fresh wound is all.”

“Still.”

There's not much to say to that, no sense in denying that even something that happened a quarter of a century ago still stings, so Fitz decides to simply _talk._ He's never really come across someone with whom he can comfortably admit things he's kept to himself for ages, but the patient understanding in Jemma’s eyes combined with the rhythmic rub of her hand against his back makes Fitz feel as though he can.

“Yeah it… I think I would have liked to have known him. My mum’s the best person I know and the way she talks about him…” He trails off as he thinks of the look in his mother’s eyes whenever his father is brought up and takes a steadying breath before continuing. “I think it destroyed her a bit, like, like she still hasn't recovered. She’s the greatest person on the planet and has done so much for me, loved me _so_ much, but I always wondered how much of herself she lost when he died. To lose your favorite person in the world? I can’t imagine it.”

Jemma hums at that, the same pensive expression she wore in the car once again on her face, and Fitz again wonders what from her own life she might be thinking of.The quiet contemplation is a bit worrying, making Fitz feel as though he's balancing on a razor’s edge. Not wanting to lose his proverbial footing, he decides that it's best to change direction before truths that he's certain he won't want to hear are revealed.

“But, you know, ‘tis better to have loved and lost is better than never to have loved at all,’ and all that.”

He gives her a wry grin but it falters when he sees that Jemma’s brow is still furrowed, perhaps even more so than before.

She looks at him questioningly, straightening slightly, and asks, “Is it really?”

Her question is asked so soberly that Fitz feels suddenly nervous, as though he's entirely unequipped to answer. He contemplates his answer for a long moment, wanting to match Jemma’s seriousness, thinking of the emotional highs and lows that he remembers his mother experiencing and finds that the sadness that seemed to linger in her eyes always paled in comparison to the pure joy that radiated from her when speaking of his father.

“Yes. I think so.”

Jemma hums noncommittally and Fitz turns to her with a raised brow. “You disagree?”

She releases a small sigh, eyes avoiding his gaze and pointedly fixated on his chest, and shrugs her shoulders. “I guess I just… I can’t speak from experience is all. I’m not sure my parents would even _notice_ if the other died and I’ve never… I’ve never witnessed that kind of love, let alone experienced myself, so how can I reasonably say whether or not it’s worth the pain that follows?”

The statement causes a few things to slot into place as Fitz realizes that much of Jemma’s public persona is the result of having grown up with very little in the way of affection. He's heard the stories, seen the mini documentaries about the tennis superstar’s emancipation at 16, and knows that May is far more a parental figure to Jemma than her actual parents ever were.

He can only imagine how few examples of love and affection she'd been exposed to growing up.

It begins to make sense to him, her repeated insistence on casual relationships, her stony press persona, her clear desire to please May. More accurately her unwavering desire not to _disappoint_ her. The ferocity with which Jemma has approached her career and the calculated steps she has taken to get where she is today likely came with its fair share of sacrifices and Fitz is suddenly certain that Jemma Simmons is the loneliest person he's ever met.

He's also fairly sure that she herself is beginning to _realize_ it.

Looking at her now, Fitz has the sudden urge to make things as clear for her as they're beginning to be for him, and nods slowly in acquiescence before tentatively expanding. “I suppose that’s the real reason most of us tour ‘innit? There’s no need to worry about finding love and losing it when _other_ losses take priority. Every week there’s another city, another match, another hotel…”

“Another girl?”

She cuts him off with a raised brow, ducking slightly to meet his eyes, and Fitz can't help but grin at her teasing fishing.

“Exactly right Jenna.”

He gives her a look and laughs when she immediately moves her hand from his hair to twist his ear and play along. “Jenna? Who’s _Jenna?!”_

He swats at her hand, grinning at her feigned jealousy and laughing as the hand _not_ holding his ear in a death-grip begins to tickle his side. “Did I say Jenna? I meant _Jemma._ With an _M._ ”

“Mmmhmm.”

“With a G too, right?”

It takes her a fraction of a second to get it but when she does Fitz feels his ear twist a little more.

“You're a monster Leonard.”

He bursts out laughing at that, head ducking in amusement, and squeezes her side in retaliation. The move causes Jemma to release both her hold on his ear as well as a squeal that causes the only other patron in the diner to glance impassively in their direction.

Fitz thinks that he might actually be willing to change his name to Leonard if it means Jemma will loop her arms around his neck and giggle into his shoulder as she is now. When she pulls back, there are amused tears in her eyes and a beaming smile on her face that causes Fitz’s heart to stutter-stop in his chest.

He watches with interest as Jemma’s smile disappears and is replaced with that same uncertain expression she's been wearing more frequently. She tilts her head slightly, eyes roving over his face, and Fitz makes a conscious effort to find a way to simultaneously appear completely open without giving too much away and scaring her off.

He's not sure she's quite ready to hear or see just how deep his feelings for her go and holds steady, maintaining the status quo and allowing Jemma to dictate where this relationship is going.

She leans in slightly, arms tightening where they're still wrapped around him, and Fitz puts gentle pressure on her back to encourage her forward momentum.

Because this is a _moment_ , perhaps even _the_ moment, and Fitz thinks that Jemma might finally be feeling the same onslaught of emotions that hit him that first day in room twenty-one-twelve.

He waits with bated breath as she inches closer, her eyes now firmly affixed to his lips, and feels that, despite the physical intimacy they've already experienced, this moment in this seaside diner is perhaps the most important.

He can make out every freckle that adorns her face, prominent from days spent playing in the sun, and every amber swirl within her irises, and feels a swoop in his gut at the sight. There's a weight to this moment that Fitz is certain could change their trajectory and he's confident that this kiss, this seemingly inevitable press of the lips, is pivotal.

“You loves ready for the bill?”

He almost groans at the cheery woman whose voice breaks the spell, causing Jemma to quickly pull away and extract herself from his hold, shifting off of him and turning to face their waitress fully.

“Yes thank you.”

Fitz feels something within him sink at the rigidity of Jemma’s posture and the almost grateful quality to her tone- as though she too is aware of what could have happened and is thanking the woman for ensuring that it _didn’t._

The waitress moves away and the fact that Jemma spends an inordinate amount of time watching her go, and avoiding turning back to look at him, only confirms to Fitz that they might be stuck in this limbo for sometime.

At a bit of a loss, he drums his fingers against the table as he tries to think of what to say. _This_ silence is a heavy one and he's not entirely sure how to break it without adding to the weight.

He's never been good in moments like these.

Everyone from his mother, to various sports commentators, to Jemma herself have pointed out that he wears his emotions on his sleeve, and yet he's never had an affinity for actually _confessing_ them. He's lived his life content to show rather than say how he feels, but he finds himself floundering now as he tries to think of a way to do _either_ without pushing too far.

Jemma shifts slightly, gaze still firmly avoiding his own and fingers fiddling in front of her, and the sheer discomfort on her face suddenly makes the solution clear.

He makes a show of turning towards her, affixing the most serious expression he can muster on his face, and waits until she looks up to begin speaking.

“Now… I realize that I ate 95% of what we ordered but, seeing as _you’re_ the one with a million sponsors and are responsible for making me drive out here while you did nothing but _sleep,_ I think it's only fair that you foot the bill.”

And just like that the tension dissipates.

The storm of emotions that had been present in Jemma’s gaze is replaced solely by incredulity and she gapes at him for a short moment before a surprised laugh escapes her.

“Oh _really?_ What would your mother say if she knew you stopped buying your own food again.”

The relief he feels when she immediately accepts his olive branch and rejoins him in safe territory is immense and he grins as he responds. “Y’know, I think she'd say, ‘Fitz you make a very good point. Jemma _should_ buy you brekkie since you got her those very nice fish and chips just the other week.’”

“Ahh yes, the fish and chips that _you_ ate.”

Her cheeky grin is certainly a sight for sore eyes and Fitz is about to continue their banter when their waitress reappears and places the check on a table with a wink.

Despite what he’d said earlier, Fitz does not _actually_ expect or wish for Jemma to pay for their meal so he snatches the bill from the table before she gets the chance and extracts his wallet from his pocket.

“Fitz…”

He waves Jemma off, dutifully ignoring her tone as his eyes scan the paper in his hand without so much as glancing in her direction.

“What are…”

“Shh.”

He cuts her off before she can continue as he makes a quick mental tally of what the gratuity should be before reaching into his billfold and pulling out the proper amount of money, and another five pounds for good measure, with a satisfied nod.

When he looks up, moving to leave the notes atop the bill, Fitz realizes that Jemma is staring at him, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. He gives her the best innocent, “What!” expression he can muster but isn’t the least bit surprised that he can’t quite sell it.

Jemma somehow manages to intensify the look on her face, brow arching infinitesimally yet somehow becoming far more pronounced as she says, “I thought _I_ was paying.”

He sees that the small clutch she’d carried to the party is open on the table, a sleek Black Card in plain view, and can tell that Jemma fully expects to leave this diner having footed the bill.

_Not in this lifetime._

Fitz gives her a small shrug, making a display of reaching over and snapping the clutch shut, and says, “Yeah well… changed my mind. You were right, I'd never hear the end of it if my mum found out I'd taken a girl to breakfast and made her pay for it.”

Jemma of course makes a deliberate show of reopening the small purse, extracting the card, and slapping it onto the table. “Yes but _I_ took _you_ to breakfast.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, both unblinking, and Fitz realizes that their combined stubbornness means they'll likely be here all day arguing about who will pay unless he can get things sorted soon.

“Jemma?”

She blinks at the sudden shift of his tone and Fitz decides to take a risk, reaching over to cover the hand atop the credit card with his own. He peers at her, suddenly feeling more open than he’s been to date, and gives her a soft smile that he hopes will aid him in wearing her down.

“Just let me buy you breakfast.”

For a brief moment, she looks as though she’s going to continue arguing and Fitz squeezes her hand, silently pleading for her to just let him do this. To just let him pretend, even for a moment, that _this_ is something that they do. To let him show her that this is something they _can_ do.

Jemma’s mouth drops open, eyes flitting to where their hands are resting on the table before returning to his face.

The small furrow in her forehead is back and Fitz gulps at the sight, wondering for the umpteeth time if he’s shown too much too soon. He watches anxiously, holding his breath as he waits for Jemma to make up her mind and accept or reject his request. He feels a shot of disappointment when she pulls her hand from beneath his, face falling at the sight, but feels his heart quicken when he realizes that she’s taken her credit card from the table and is carefully tucking it back in her purse.

When the clutch is once again snapped closed, Jemma turns back to him with a small smile, giving him an almost imperceptible nod and whispering, “Okay.”

He can’t even _try_ to stop the beaming smile from making its way across his face and is inordinately pleased when a smaller, but no less genuine, one appears on Jemma’s. She seems almost bashful when he lays the notes on the bill, ducking her head down and pushing a stray hair behind her ear, and Fitz finds that this is far greater a victory than anything he’s experienced on the court.

She silently scoots out of the booth and he follows behind, waving at their waitress and thanking her for the meal as they make their way to the exit. They walk out of the diner into the bright sun and Fitz feels utterly buoyant when Jemma reaches out to weave her fingers through his.

They stroll silently for a few long moments, ambling down the sidewalk with an air of contentedness surrounding them as they look out into the open water. The steady stroke of her thumb against his hand fills him with giddiness and he can’t stop himself from swinging their arms between them.

Jemma laughs at his antics and _Fitz_ laughs when she joins in, swinging their arms with even more vigor and grinning up at him as though she’s _finally_ decided to let go of her reservations and simply enjoy where they are _now_ rather than worry about where they might end up.

He gives her a small wink, smiling at the way it causes her to flush prettily in the sunlight, pulling her closer on the next swing of their hands and wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“So what's the plan? I hope this town has a bed and breakfast that isn't booked full.”

Jemma looks up at that, hand moving to shield the sun from her eyes as she asks, “Why?”

He gives her a pointed look, assuming she’s having a laugh at him until he notes the genuine look of confusion on her face. He blinks a few times and speaks slowly when he says, “Because I'm utterly knackered and don't plan on driving back to London at any point today.”

Jemma rolls her eyes at that, shifting so that she better fits under his arm and gives him a droll look. “Well of _course_ not. But what do you need a bed and breakfast for? We _just_ ate and I already have a bed.”

He slows his walk at this, glancing down at her in equal parts surprise and confusion, and questions, “You… have a bed?”

Jemma releases a short laugh and shaking her head in amused exasperation. “Believe it or not Fitz, most people have beds in their flats, myself included.”

It takes him a moment to process what Jemma is saying and when it finally clicks he comes to a halt and stares at her in astonishment.

“Your fl… you live in _Brighton?”_

She gives a shrug, ducking out from under his arm and turning to face him as she nonchalantly says, “Sometimes.”

Fitz blinks sluggishly as even more pieces of the puzzle that is Jemma Simmons fit snugly together and watches as said enigma moves towards his parked car and leaves him gaping behind. He watches her go, evening gown shimmering in the morning sunshine, and wonders just how much more he still has to learn about Jemma. Even more he wonders how much she’ll _let_ him learn.

As if she can hear his thoughts, Jemma turns around, feet moving backwards and smile growing on her face as she beckons him forward.

“Coming Fitz?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, starting NOW I'll post once a week until the writing is complete, then twice a week shall commence. So look out for the next chapter on Friday! Also, be advised that the next chapter will bump the rating up due to FS having an entire apartment to themselves and no May/Trip/Daisy to interrupt them...


	17. A Proper Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BE AWARE!!!!! This chapter is rated E for explicit, not E for everyone, and is entirely skippable in terms of plot. Honestly, plot-wise very little if anything happens in this one. FitzSimmons sleep together. That's it. Also I can't write this stuff for my life so I'd skip it anyways tbh. Come back on Friday for an installment that actually moves the story forward.

***IN CASE YOU CHOSE TO IGNORE THE ABOVE NOTE, THE BELOW IS RATED 'E' SO SKIP THIS WHOLE DANG CHAPTER IF YOU HAVE NO INTEREST IN READING ABOUT WHAT FITZSIMMONS GET UP TO WHEN THEY HAVE AN EMPTY APARTMENT TO THEMSELVES***

* * *

 

Not much later they’re pulling up to a row of brownstones that overlook the sea and Fitz has never seen a more beautiful sight. Not the image of the sun hitting the Prussian blue waves nor the picturesque beach that stretches out for miles. 

No, it’s the actual  _ building  _ that elates him.

It’s the fact that they’ve reached their destination and can get the hell out of this blasted coupe that has him near tears, because, for the entirety of the five minute drive from the diner to this address, Jemma had kept her hand firmly on his thigh, fingers wandering in teasing circles that kept his hands knuckle-white around the steering wheel. One such teasing circle had expanded far and firmly enough that he’d almost been forced to pull over for fear of crashing, and the tension that had built up over the short period now has him focused only on finding a bed.

He hops out of the car once it’s parked before hastily making his way around and opening Jemma’s door with a look that he hopes appears more smoldering than desperate. Considering the grip she takes on his hand as she pulls him behind her towards the front door, Fitz thinks that even if he  _ does  _ look pathetically desperate, he might not be the only one

It feels like an eternity as Jemma pulls a spare key from a discreet nook beneath the small flight of stairs, and Fitz can’t help but nip gently at her shoulder as she unlocks the door. Unfortunately, the gesture backfires as Jemma’s hand falters at the lock, tilting her head back against him and reaching back with her other hand to tug at his hair rather than get the blasted door open.  He extends his own arm, wrapping his fingers around where Jemma is still loosely gripping the key, and twists until the telltale sound of the door unlocking can be heard over their now ragged breathing. Yanking the knob perhaps a bit more forcefully than necessary, Jemma opens the door and grips his hand as she begins tugging him up the stairs.

When they reach the first floor landing, Jemma promptly shoves the key in the lock while simultaneously turning around and pulling his head down for a searing kiss that he can feel in every limb of his body. Blindly pushing at the wood behind Jemma, Fitz vaguely registers that the door is open… which in turns opens the dam. They crash through the flat, her hands fisting his hair as his lips make work of her neck, and Fitz doesn’t mind in the slightest that his body is used to close the door when Jemma uses  _ hers  _ to pin him against it. He can’t stop the groan from leaving his mouth at the feeling of Jemma pressed against him and revels in the way the sound causes her breath to hitch in his ear.

Though, the gasp likely has more to do with him nipping at her pulse point, all teeth and tongue, than anything else.

In the next moment Jemma’s using her grip on his hair to pull his mouth away from her neck, redirecting it to her own lips where she meets him for a kiss that causes what little blood remains above his navel to immediately rush south. He shifts his hands from where they’d been  _ somewhat  _ respectively resting on her waist to palm her arse and pull her more flushly against him, choking on yet another moan at the new point of contact.

The tension now reaching a crescendo, Fitz feels nothing short of desperate as Jemma’s hands move to tug his shirt from his trousers. The feeling of her hands roving over his stomach spurns him into action and he pushes himself off the door, stepping forward and moving Jemma further into the flat so she guide him to wherever it is she plans on having her way with him.

She gets the memo quickly, turning them around and kicking off her shoes without detaching her lips from his while shifting her fingers to begin working at the small buttons of his shirt. As she steers him in the direction of what he presumes is the bedroom, or at least  _ a  _ room with any sort of flat surface, Fitz toes off his own shoes and throws his shirt to the ground once Jemma manages to pry the last button free.

With one offending article gone, Jemma tugs at his belt and Fitz lets out another low groan as her fingers (no doubt  _ intentionally)  _ brush against where he’s now straining beneath his trousers. She gives a deliberate squeeze that causes him to pull away from her mouth with a gasp, pressing his forehead to her shoulder as he glances down and watches her hand rub purposefully against him. It’s one of the more erotic things he’s seen in his life and he can’t stop himself from reaching down to cover Jemma’s hand with his own, squeezing her as she squeezes him.

“ _ Jemma.” _

The sandpapery quality to his voice isn’t  _ surprising _ considering how far gone he already is, but it apparently  _ is  _ appealing because Jemma releases a moan of her own before snatching his hand and pulling him down the hallway.

As they move, Fitz tugs at the zipper of Jemma’s dress and briefly wonders how pricey the garment is as it falls in a silken heap on the floor. The dress no longer a barrier, Fitz has to physically bite his lip to prevent yet  _ another  _ groan from escaping at the realization that Jemma has spent the entire morning and evening braless. The sight of her bare back prompts him to immediately reattach his lips to her skin, wrapping his arms around her and palming her breasts as they continue down the hall  He grins at the way her head languidly falls against him as soon as his palms make contact and feels another bolt of desire shoot through him at the breathy gasp she releases when his thumb makes a deliberate swipe over her nipple. Their roles now reversed, it’s  _ Jemma  _ who reaches up to cover his hand with her own and squeeze at her flesh. Glancing over her shoulder from where he’s now pressed snugly against her back, Fitz feels himself twitch at the sight of their hands moving in synchrony and quickens his pace to hurry them along.

He could collapse in relief as they finally make it into what appears to be the master bedroom, but instead finds himself being  _ pushed  _ against the king bed that is most  _ definitely  _ his favorite feature of the flat so far. He lands atop the mattress with an, “oof,” that immediately transforms into a gasp when Jemma tugs his trousers off him completely and promptly moves to straddle him. Sitting up immediately, he meets Jemma halfway when she moves in to kiss him and Fitz is confident that this is a scenario that he’ll never grow used to.

As their tongues duel, he lets his hands slowly trail their way along her back and sides before reaching their final destination, caressing her with a focus that surprises him considering his mind seems to have left him completely. So distracted by his ministrations that Fitz doesn’t take note of  _ Jemma’s  _ until she’s reaching into his boxers and taking him in hand. The feeling of her fingers wrapped around him causes him to fall back on the mattress with something sounding quite a bit like a keen. The only sound in the room is his ragged breathing and he shuts his eyes at the near crippling sensation of Jemma’s hand working him over.

When he manages to sluggishly open his eyes, his gaze first flits to where Jemma’s hand has disappeared beneath his boxers before zeroing in on the woman herself. She’s looking at him with hooded eyes, pupils blown wide, and a smirk that almost makes him lose it right then and there. It’s the realization of how  _ close  _ he is to the precipice that makes Fitz sit up abruptly and promptly flip them around so that he’s lying atop Jemma with his hips snugly cradled between her thighs.  Grinding against her as she arches up, Fitz burrows his face into the crook of Jemma’s neck in an attempt to reel himself in. He shifts slightly to the side, groaning at the disappointed whine that escapes Jemma at the loss of friction, and moves his hand to the last scrap of fabric that she’s wearing. Slipping his fingers beneath the black lace, he strokes lazy circles against her while shifting his mouth to the breast closest to him.

_ “Fitz!” _

He’s not quite prepared for the jolt of pleasure that shoots through him at the sound of his name from Jemma’s mouth, moaned so raspily into his ear, and he redoubles the efforts of both his tongue and fingers in a bid to hear it again. The move is entirely successful because the next minute is filled with nothing other than his name and the occasional, “Oh  _ yes. _ ”

Shifting his mouth, Fitz leans up to press his lips to Jemma’s as he simultaneously shifts the angle of his hand and pushes a finger between her folds. The reaction is instantaneous, Jemma arching off the bed and shutting her eyes with a gasp as Fitz steadily works her. Letting his tongue map the juncture between her neck and shoulder, Fitz internally grins as he begins to formulate a plan to map the  _ rest  _ of her.

Knowing Jemma’s general competitiveness, Fitz comes up with what  _ he  _ thinks is a rather tremendous way of one-upping her. He keeps up a steady pace of his fingers, teasing within her as his thumb presses firmly against her clit, until her moans reach a crescendo that make it pretty clear she’s on the brink. When her hand shifts to grip the arm whose hand is working her, Fitz knows that it’s time and immediately pulls away from her completely, removing his hand from her underwear and his mouth from her skin.

The disappointed, “ _ No,”  _ comes out as a whine and Fitz waits until Jemma’s eyes sluggishly open in confusion before making a show of grasping her underwear and slowly tugging them down her legs. Her eyes widen at the display before zeroing in on his hands as they toss the fabric behind him. When her gaze shifts to lock on his, her chest is heaving in anticipation and Fitz finds himself transfixed by the sight.

While he certainly still has a few things he’d like to do before  _ crossing the event horizon,  _ so to speak, Fitz thinks that now’s as good a time as any to get rid of his own underwear so he makes quick work of them, getting up from the bed long enough to push the fabric to the floor before moving to stand at the foot of the mattress. His eyes rove over Jemma’s body and he feels warmth pool in his belly at the flushed pinkness of her skin.

Grinning, he kneels between Jemma’s legs before placing his hands on either side of her head and leaning down for a languid kiss that is all teeth and tongue. A mistake because the new position gives Jemma easy access to his cock and she wastes no time grasping it firmly in her hand and making him moan. It feels a bit as though her fingers are everywhere at once, tugging and twisting exactly the way he likes it and, though he can’t actually see her face due to his tightly shut eyes, Fitz  _ knows  _ that Jemma is grinning smugly.

He allows himself to succumb to the feeling for a short moment, reveling in the dual sensation of Jemma’s fingers gripping him as her mouth presses chaste kisses against every centimeter of his face that she can reach, but, as amazing as Jemma’s hand on him is, it’s  _ not  _ part of his plan. So after a particularly toe-curling twist of the wrist, Fitz reaches down to tug her hand away as he himself moves back down her body. He can see her stomach muscles tighten with each kiss he places against her torso and grins against her hipbone when Jemma pulls in a sharp breath of realization, clearly now aware of where this, rather where  _ Fitz,  _ is headed.

He pauses once reaching his final destination, situating himself more comfortably between Jemma’s outstretched legs and looking up at her in question.

They’ve not done this before, their past  _ workouts  _ providing very little time to explore each other to the best of their abilities, instead focused entirely on getting to the  _ final act  _ as quickly as possible. But just because they’ve not had the  _ opportunity  _ for a more prolonged bout of foreplay doesn’t mean Fitz hasn’t  _ thought  _ about it, which means an excited thrill shoots through him when Jemma gives a slight nod and cards her fingers through his hair- applying just the slightest amount of pressure to make it clear that she is very much game for this newest addition to their bedroom activities.

Shooting her one last cocky grin, and pushing his hips firmly against the mattress in an attempt to keep his  _ own  _ cock at bay, Fitz leans down and swipes his tongue deliberately against her. Jemma’s grip on his hair tightens immediately but the small twinge of pain is worth it as his name falls from her lips in a litany of gasps and moans.

He alternates between quick licks and gentle sucks, cataloging each sound that leaves Jemma and using each to determine the patterns and moves that will bring Jemma over the edge as quickly as possible. When he next glances up, Jemma is fondling her chest and the sight causes him to groan, which in turn causes Jemma to buck up against him with a gasp. Raising an eyebrow at the reaction, Fitz deliberately begins to hum in time with each press of his lips against her clit and has to hold an arm against her waist to prevent Jemma from arching too high off the bed.

The reaction from Jemma only causes him to work his mouth faster, humming louder against her as his tongue moves rapidly against every erogenous zone he can think of, and it’s less than a minute later that she’s tightening her grip on his hair and breaking apart against him with a shouted, “ _ Fitz!” _

He slows his movements, still pressing his mouth against her to ease her through her orgasm, and loosens his grip on her abdomen so that he can lightly trail his fingers along her hips. When he feels her tug at his hair, he finally pulls his lips away and moves his way back up her body, pressing light kisses against her along the way.

When his face becomes level with hers, Jemma wastes no time tugging him down for a kiss that immediately has him twitching in earnest against her hip… something that doesn’t go unnoticed. When she pulls away, Jemma’s eyes are almost entirely black, her pupils so far expanded that there’s barely a hint of the stormy hazel that Fitz is so accustomed to seeing, and he’s entirely certain that his own blue irises are just as hidden by his lust.

Jemma presses up again, tugging his lower lip with her teeth and causing an immediate fission of electricity to shoot through him. He matches her nips with his own, faltering only when Jemma’s hand wraps around his aching erection and guides it to her entrance.

As her legs wrap around his, Fitz finds himself once again grateful for the fact that Jemma, as a professional female athlete, had opted for the more long term form of birth control. While there’s likely a condom stashed somewhere in his wallet, now that he’s pressed against Jemma, he has neither the intention nor desire to track it down. Pausing briefly to press a messy kiss to her lips, Fitz lines himself up and waits until Jemma shifts beneath him and moves her hands to his arse- applying pressure in a bid to spurn him on. The feeling of her nails sinking into his skin pulls a gasp from him and is entirely successful at accomplishing what Jemma had set out to do.

He pushes in with a low groan that is matched in volume and fervor by Jemma and only stills when his hips are flush against hers. Her arms move up to his back, tugging him closer as she leans up and crashes her mouth against his, and the feeling of being encompassed by her in every imaginable way almost causes him to lose it then and there.

Taking the time to focus on the way Jemma’s tongue is dueling with his rather than the growing tension below, Fitz presses in with fervor and allows himself to become lost in the feeling of her lips against his. After a minute or two, the need to  _ move  _ becomes unbearable and he pulls out slowly before thrusting back in with a snap of the hips that causes Jemma to gasp as his eyes all but roll back in his head.

He moves his head back into the crook of her neck as he repeats the motion, making sure to grind against her clit as he presses back in and groans at the panting in his ear. He feels her nails rake against his back and the stinging trail that is left behind only causes him to quicken his movements, pulling out and pushing in in near synchrony until both he and Jemma are shouting each other’s names and moving together feverishly as they push themselves higher.

He knows that he won’t last much longer, only a few thrusts away from breaking apart, so he moves his mouth to Jemma’s breast and works a hand between them to rub fast circles against her. The dual stimulation seems to work because in the next moment he feels her tighten around him with a strangled gasp that immediately coaxes out his own release. He pushes into her with a final shout, body tensing in ecstasy as she grips him, before his limbs give out and he falls atop her with a satisfied groan.

The room is silent save for their heaving breaths and Fitz shuts his eyes in the closest thing to bliss he’s ever experienced. Once his heart returns to a normal rhythm and he regains  _ some  _ control over his limbs, Fitz presses a tender kiss to Jemma’s breast as he pulls out of her with a hiss. He shifts slightly to the side so that only  _ half  _ of his weight is on her and all but purrs when she begins running her fingers across his scalp.

They’re still for another few minutes before Fitz moves to lay flat against the mattress and tugs Jemma until her head is pillowed against her chest. As her fingers trace aimless patterns against his skin, Fitz feels the foggy cloud that comes from being utterly satiated lift.

“That was…”

He doesn’t quite have the words to describe what _ that was _ but doesn’t feel too silly for his speechlessness when Jemma simply hums and murmurs, “ _ Agreed, _ ” against his chest. Fitz chuffs out a laugh at that, thumb rubbing circles against her shoulder as he stares at the ceiling in complete and utter contentment.

“Know what the  _ best  _ thing is?”

Jemma’s question causes him to shift his head to look at her and he waggles his eyebrows with a grin as he says, “The best thing I did to you or you did to me?”

She swats his chest with a laugh before pushing herself up so that she’s leaning over him as her lips graze the shell of his ear.

“The  _ best  _ thing... is that we have  _ plenty  _ of time for more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Managed to write more than expected over the weekend. Hopefully this means twice-a-week postings will continue. There might be another one-weeker coming up if I need to catch up with myself but who knows.


	18. Another Piece of the Puzzle

Fitz wakes up to the feeling of Jemma’s lips against his chest and grins as they travel up his neck and across his face before landing against his mouth with a smack.

When he manages to crack his eyes open, she’s sitting atop him in the shirt he’d discarded earlier and staring down at him with a grin. He rubs his eyes with a groan, stretching his arms to the side and wincing at the twinge in his back, before smiling up at her and letting his hands rest on the legs bracketing his waist.

She leans forward, nuzzling her nose against his before pressing a chaste kiss to his lips and whispering in his ear. “Want to have a workout?”

She pulls back, sitting up again with an expectant look on her face, and Fitz feels his smile grow as he processes Jemma’s words.

“Thought we just  _ did.” _

He waggles his eyebrows and reaches out to grab her waist, tugging her back down to him and rolling them over so that he’s pinning her against the bed. Leaning forward, he presses a languid kiss to her lips before pulling back and saying, “But I’m certainly game for another round.”

Jemma throws her head back in delight, swatting at his chest and rolling her eyes as she sinks further into the mattress. “A  _ real  _ workout. We need to get out Fitz, do  _ something.  _ I haven’t been this lazy in… I can’t even remember how long.”

He rests his chin against her stomach, gazing up at her and wondering if she’s  _ ever  _ experienced a full day of utter laziness. Considering she’s spent the past decade with Melinda May, Fitz is fairly certain that the answer is  _ no _ .

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

Jemma hums at his observation, giving a small shrug that he likely wouldn’t notice were it not for the fact that he can  _ feel  _ it where he rests atop her, and looks at the ceiling in contemplation. He knows that it’s not his place to say anything, to prod or question, so he shifts his head and lets his cheek rest against Jemma’s stomach, closing his eyes with a sigh when her fingers begin to card through his hair.

It’s silent for a few minutes before Fitz shifts again, pushing himself to the side and propping himself up with an elbow so he can look at Jemma as he pulls her back to the present. “I hope you don’t expect me to do anything  _ too  _ strenuous Simmons. Not sure if you’ve seen me play tennis but… stamina isn’t exactly a strength.”

She grins at that, looking over at him with a raised brow and sounding positively lascivious as she runs her hand along his chest and says, “Oh  _ really?  _ Because I happen to know from personal experience that you have  _ quite  _ the stamina Fitz, Leo Fitz.”

He snorts before falling back to the bed and throwing his arm over his eyes with an exaggerated groan. “Damn it all. I knew my godlike skills in bed would bite me in the arse one day.”

He should probably be slightly offended by the immediacy and volume of Jemma’s responding laughter but is too pitifully enamored watching her cheeks redden in amusement to worry about her finding his description of his sexual prowess so hysterical.  When her laughter finally dies down, and she manages to clear her face of  _ most _ of her tears of mirth, Fitz catches her eye with a resigned sigh.

“What’d you have in mind? I mean, what’s a typical workout for one of the top athletes in the world? Wrestling sharks in the South Pacific? Pushing an army tank up Mount Everest?”

Jemma rolls her eyes with a smirk, pushing herself into a sitting position and dismissing him with a wave. “Been there, done that. I was thinking something more along the lines of a  _ run.  _ Or even a light jog if you’d prefer.”

He almost sighs in relief at the suggestion, having fully expected Jemma to have convinced him into a circuit of every exercise in existence, but instead gives her a small smile and says, “ _ A light jog  _ is one of the few things that's actually in my wheelhouse. There is one  _ teeny  _ problem though.”

Jemma raises a brow and gesticulates for him to continue, and Fitz smiles as he says, “I haven’t got any clothes.”

Jemma let's out a victorious, “ _ Aha!”  _ at that, hopping up from the bed and disappearing into what Fitz presumes is a closet. Not a moment later, Jemma is emerging with a triumphant grin and holding out a bundle of fabric in his direction.  “Lucky for  _ you  _ my preferred sleepwear is  _ menswear. _ ”

She tosses a pair of sweatpants at his head, followed by a faded Stones shirt that looks all too familiar.  He peers at it for a moment, cataloging all of the small holes and tears before noticing a distinct pen stain on one of the sleeves and dropping his mouth in surprise.

“Hang on… this is  _ mine!” _

Jemma’s eyes widen in indignation and she grabs the shirt from his hands and shakes her head. “What?! No it's not! I've had it for  _ ages _ !”

Fitz wastes no time snatching it back and turns it upside down and inside out. “Oh yes it is! My mum hijacked all my shirts once and sewed… ha! See?”

He points to the small Scottish flag with the initials L.F. hidden beneath the tag of the shirt and watches Jemma's mouth drop in shock as she takes the garment from his hands and runs her fingers over the hand-stitched letters.

He speaks up when she still seems to disbelieve him, explaining, “One day Daisy stole anything that didn't have a collar ‘cause she didn’t want me looking like a, ‘wannabe street youth,’ whatever that is. Figured I'd get ‘em back later but when I finally asked her about where they went, she said she trashed them.”

Jemma's eyes widen even more at that and she says, “Oh my god.”

“What?”

Fitz watches as Jemma’s ogling stare switches between him and the shirt in her hands. “A few years ago I was at Daisy’s and I noticed a bag of clothes. She said she was spring cleaning all of her ex’s stuff and asked if I wanted anything before she got rid of it… this really  _ is  _ your shirt.”

Fitz falls back on the bed in laughter at the look of sheer embarrassment on Jemma’s face. Having spent much of their…  _ thing… _ in a constant state of mortification, he has no plans of letting her live this down anytime soon.

“Jemma Simmons. Wearing my shirt without me even knowing it. Hey, does this mean we’re going steady? I'm sure my T-Birds jacket is lying around somewhere if you want that too.”

She barely even acknowledges his joke, instead looking at this shirt in her hands and shaking her head in disbelief.

“I cannot believe this is  _ yours. I thought the flag was just the brand...  _ I can't believe Daisy didn't  _ tell me!” _

Fitz sniggers in amusement before pushing himself up again and looking at her in curious interest. “Hey, did you manage to save anything else from the rubbish bin? There was a limited edition Beatles jumper that was the absolute  _ best,  _ shame if that didn't survive Daisy’s spring-cleaning _.” _

Jemma's mouth drops further open at his question and the reddening of her cheeks causes him to fall back again as he puts two and two together. “Oh my god you  _ have  _ got it. This is too great.”

“It's  _ soft _ !”

Her defensive exclamation causes another round of laughter and Fitz has to wipe tears from his eyes as he takes Jemma in. The fact that she's glaring at him, adorably defensive about having his t-shirts while wearing his dress shirt, isn’t lost on him and it's a sight he wants burned into his retinas. He can't help but let out another chuckle as he wonders if Jemma’s even  _ aware  _ of the irony and grins up at her from the bed.

“Yeah keep laughing. See if I give any of them back now.”

He looks at her as though she's a mad woman, shaking his head and waving his hand at her. “Give them back? I don't  _ want _ them back. I want you keep them forever so that every time you put one on you're reminded that you've been sleeping with my clothes longer than you've been sleeping with me.”

Fitz starts laughing again at the realization and it only doubles when Jemma chucks the shirt at his head with a petulant glare. “And I'll be sleeping with them  _ far longer  _ than I'll be sleeping with  _ you _ if you keep it up.”

“You’re a terrible liar Simmons.”

“Get dressed Fitz. Our light jog just turned into a half-marathon.”

She turns on her heel, marching into the ensuite bathroom, and a second later his dress shirt is tossed through the open door. Fitz smiles fondly at the sight, suddenly far more enamored with it than amused. “Alright,  _ alright.  _ I’m getting dressed… in  _ my _ clothes.”

Her shout of, “Now it’s a full marathon!” is easy to hear from where she's changing in the other room and Fitz groans as he tugs the sweats up his body, knowing full well that she's serious.

He picks up the Stones shirt from where it's fallen to the floor, tugging it over his head and smiling at the combined scent of himself and Jemma that has seeped into the cotton.  As much as he has, and  _ will  _ tease, her, Fitz is actually inordinately pleased by this new discovery. Seeing Jemma in his dress shirt pales in comparison to imagining her lounging around in his old band shirts and jumpers, and Fitz hopes that he'll be able to see the real thing one of these days.

He's just worked up the courage to vocalize as much when Jemma’s phone begins to vibrate atop the bedside table. He reaches over to grab it, gulping at the  _ MAY  _ that flashes across the screen, and makes his way to the bathroom with his arm outstretched.  He meets Jemma’s eyes in the mirror, smiling at the sight, and presses a quick kiss to her now bare shoulder before placing the buzzing phone atop the vanity.

“Phone.”

She gives it a glance and Fitz watches as she tenses when she sees who’s calling. She glances up again, meeting his gaze in the mirror, and Fitz squeezes her shoulders in support before giving her a chaste kiss to the cheek and making his exit as she answers her phone.

“Hello… I'm  _ fine _ May.”

He lingers for a bit, ears straining to hear the only end of the conversation that really matters to him, and feels his heart thump erratically against his chest as he prepares himself for the worst: Jemma agreeing to return to London immediately and cut all ties with the Scottish weight that's bringing her down.

“No I just needed to get away from the chaos for a bit.”

“Yes I know. I  _ know.  _ I wouldn’t have if I didn’t… Look, it’s hard to explain but… I just really needed to do this.”

Fitz quietly pads his way back to the bed, sitting heavily on the mattress with a sigh. The emotions that are waging a war within him suddenly making him feel exhausted. The guilt that he feels for whatever lecture Jemma is getting from May pales in comparison to the warmth that seeped through him at  _ I really needed to do this. _

While she could very well be referring to escaping London in general, the softness to Jemma’s voice as she spoke to May was like a small ember of hope for him. Because perhaps the need to get away had more to do with  _ him  _ than the stresses of the city.  He sits on the bed now in contemplation, no longer trying to discern the soft mumbling coming from the other room, and decides that he'll prove whichever part of Jemma thought running away with him was a good idea right.  There's no reason for her to feel guilty about taking a  _ break _ , especially considering she doesn't have a match for another two days, and Fitz is overcome with determination to ensure that May doesn't cause Jemma to regret this.

The sound of the faucet interrupts his musing and Fitz realizes that Jemma’s call with May must have ended. Uncertain as to  _ how  _ it ended, Fitz hesitates before calling out into the silence.

“Hey Jemma?”

“Hmm?”

He glances around the bedroom, catching a glimpse of one of the stray shoes he’d kicked off earlier, scratching his head as he realizes that his lack of clothes wasn't the only issue. “You haven't stolen any of my old trainers too, have you? I've only got my dress shoes here.”

“Pretty sure I saw a pair of high-tops in your car.”

Her voice is closer now and Fitz looks up with a smile as he takes in the sight of Jemma leaning against the doorframe. He blinks sluggishly, totally unprepared for seeing her looking so natural in his old clothes, and finds his eyes scanning the visage in front of him with wonder. She's wearing the very Beatles jumper he'd mentioned earlier, paired with shorts and her standard grin, and Fitz realizes quite suddenly that he's fallen hard and fast for Jemma Simmons.

Like,  _ properly _ fallen.

“Did you?”

His voice cracks on the question and he clears his throat with a sharp cough, shaking his head in an attempt to snap out of his stupor before continuing. “Nice. Forgot I'd left ‘em there.”

He ducks his head as he slips on his socks but not fast enough to miss the curious look that crosses Jemma’s face at his behavior. Fitz feels his cheeks flush under her gaze and makes slow work of the socks in an bid to buy time. After a few moments he knows he knows he can't reasonably prolong the task any more than he already has, and pushes himself up with an exaggerated groan.

“Come on Simmons, better get going before I change my mind and watch the Telly instead.”

He casts a cursory glance in her direction to see that she's still looking at him pensively, her head tilted to the side and a speculative expression on her face.

His next swallow sounds thundering to his ears as he waits for Jemma to do or say whatever it is she clearly  _ wants  _ to, but his sigh is all but silent when she simply says, “Yeah… let’s go.”

She grabs his hand, either intentionally ignoring his double-take or genuinely not noticing it, and pulls him along without another word.

-O-

Having slept the day away, the sun is already beginning to dip below the horizon by the time they make it out the door and begin running along the promenade.

As is customary where the two of them are concerned, Fitz let’s Jemma set the pace, content to simply tag along and enjoy the view of Simmons running in front of him.

Though… said view doesn’t last long.

It only takes Jemma a few minutes to realize why Fitz had requested that she run ahead of him, his excuse of her  _ knowing the area better  _ quickly seen through as a ploy for him to get to know  _ her  _ area better, and she’d promptly whacked him across the head. She’d shoved him in front of her after that, poking him whenever he tried to shift their jog into a leisurely stroll and chattering away about everything whilst Fitz struggled to breathe.

Thankfully, the workout that had started out  _ somewhat  _ promising quickly transforms into him collapsing on the ground in a bid to put an end to the torture, Jemma grabbing his arm in an attempt to  _ continue  _ it, and,  _ eventually _ , them playfully chasing one another down the beach and doing their utmost to beat the other in whatever unknown game they’re playing.

One minute they're sprinting after one another, the next Fitz is jogging with a laughing Jemma on his back, and the next they're ambling hand-in-hand down a quiet street, giggling like teenagers and feeling far more carefree than two people in the quarterfinals of Wimbledon probably should.

After a few minutes walking in silence, Jemma tugs at his hand and nods in the direction of an abandoned tennis court. She pulls him along with a grin and Fitz gladly follows because, he realizes, he might just follow her anywhere.

The old gate creaks open with little effort from them and Jemma pulls at his hand as they walk onto the forgotten court. There are weeds growing from cracks along the service lines, the paint of the baseline barely visible from years of neglect, and the rusty bumper cars piled on one end makes the lot seem more like an installation art piece than an actual tennis court.  Still, there's something about it, lit only by the moon and a lone streetlamp, that makes this place feel utterly magical.  Though... Fitz is certain that the warm weight of Jemma’s hand in his likely has more to do with that than anything else.

She pulls away, walking towards the center of the court, and Fitz shoves his hands in his pockets as he watches her go. He slowly makes his way towards her when she looks over her shoulder and meets his gaze, dragging his shoes against the worn cement as he does.  When he gets close enough, Jemma extends her hand and Fitz readily takes it in his again, letting his thumb rub slow circles as Jemma continues her ambling.

“This is the first tennis court I ever played on.”

Her words are quiet but Fitz can hear the nostalgic fondness in her voice as he looks over at her in surprise.

“ _ What _ ? Really?!”

He can't quite imagine the woman before him hitting forehands on this dilapidated court but Jemma nods her head with a soft smile as the fingers of her free hand follow the dips of the sinking net.

“Mmmhmmm. My family spent a summer here and my parents were more interested in the spending time at the beach and the Club than with me so… I'd just spend the days walking around, trying to find something to entertain myself.” She does a slow turn, taking in the neglected court as though she's a million miles away.

“I ended up stumbling across this place one day and watched a lesson. I was so fascinated by it that I spent the  _ entire  _ day watching. I sat right over there from ten in the morning to four in the afternoon.” 

She points to a spot outside of the fence beneath a small tree and Fitz smiles because this he  _ can  _ picture. He's always expected Jemma to be an innately curious individual and can quite clearly see her younger self observing from afar in his mind’s eye. Hiding beneath the shadow of a tree for hours just to satiate her intrigue.

“The next day I came back and, after his lessons were finished, the instructor called me over and handed me a racquet. Just like that. Started feeding me balls and… I fell in love. It… it was  _ fun. _ I didn't even know what fun  _ was  _ before then.”

He releases a small scoff, giving a playful shove while questioning, “Come on!”

Jemma being  _ Jemma  _ means that she shoves him right back with no hesitation. “It's true! Until that point my life was focused on school, piano lessons, outside tutoring… anything that involved an adult watching me so my parents wouldn't have to. I wasn't even  _ meant _ to go on holiday with them but the summer science program I’d been registered for ended up being cancelled last minute and they were stuck with  _ me _ .”

The emphasis that she placed on  _ me _ causes Fitz to furrow his brows, uncertain as to how she or anyone else could possibly view her company as a  _ hindrance. _ The way her eyes are affixed on the ground makes Fitz think that, perhaps just this once, Jemma might like to know exactly what he's thinking. “Not sure  _ anyone  _ could consider spending time with you as  _ being stuck with. _ ”

She blushes at that, ducking her head to hide the smile that Fitz had spotted the millisecond it began to spread across her face, before giving a small shrug and soldiering on. “Yes well… anyways. The instructor, Garner, offered to coach me each morning before his other lessons began and I jumped at the chance.”

“So that's what I did for the rest of the summer. I played tennis. And  _ talked.  _ Garner became like a therapist for me if I'm being honest, listening to my eight-year-old self prattle on about anything and everything. Just listening. I think… I think that's part of the reason I enjoyed it so much. I liked having someone to talk to.”

A look of such wistfulness crosses Jemma’s face that Fitz swears he feels his heart constrict in his chest. It's one thing to  _ assume  _ a person is, or at the very least  _ has been _ , lonely, but hearing Jemma speak of her childhood now only reminds Fitz of the unwavering support he received from his own mother in each of his endeavors. 

He steps closer to her, loosely wrapping his arms around her waist and smiles when she presses her head against his chest.

“On the last day of vacation, I brought Andrew all the allowance I'd saved up to pay for the lessons. He… he wouldn't even take it. He just asked me if I was interested in playing once I got back home and when I told him I wanted to play tennis more than anything, he gave me a list of everything a proper player should have. Told me to keep my allowance and use it for that instead.”

Fitz can feel her smile against his chest, just as easily picturing the exact expression on her face, and isn't surprised to find that his own mouth has curved up as well. He waits for a moment, too comfortable in their shared silence to break it, before his curiosity ultimately wins out.

“Jemma?”

“Hmm?”

“The… the thing with your parents. How…”

She shifts slightly, moving so that her chin is pressed to his sternum rather than her cheek, and gives him a wry look.

“How did they go from pretending I didn't exist to being overbearing and pushy wannabe-managers?”

“Well, yeah.”

She pulls in a breath and releases it as a weary sigh. “Short story, I kept taking lessons and I got  _ good.  _ Other people started to notice so my  _ parents  _ started to notice. The next thing I knew I was being homeschooled and playing 8 hours of tennis a day. I trained during the week, competed during weekends, and slept whenever they weren't looking.”

While Fitz himself has experienced his fair share of heavy training, Jemma’s description of what her parents put her through makes him blanch.

_ “ _ That sounds bloody awful.”

Jemma releases a droll hum that he feels in his chest before muttering, “It certainly wasn't a high point.”

“Then why’d you go along with it?”

“I guess… as hard as it was and as long as the days were, for awhile I liked that my parents seemed to like  _ me. _ Or were paying attention at least. I was a  _ kid.  _ I just wanted to make them proud. You know?”

He's nodding before he even realizes it, Jemma’s words only confirming his earlier suspicions about what might have prompted her to become such a tough competitor at such a young age.

She looks at him in contemplation, as though trying to determine his sincerity, so he lets his thumbs stroke idly where they're resting on her waist, hoping that the physical gesture will aid in conveying his genuine understanding of the decisions made in her youth. He both sees and feels her relax, shifting again to press her cheek against his chest and wrapping her arms around him in a tight squeeze.

“When I was fifteen I ended up passing out in the middle of a match from exhaustion. My parents yelled at me for it. Said that I ruined my shot at being seen as a high-level competitor and embarrassed them in front of the scouts they’d brought in.”

Fitz’s muttered, “Jesus,” is soft, more reflexive than anything, but Jemma seems to hear it loud and clear if her humorless laugh is anything to go by.

“Right? They ended up leaving, told me to stay and work on my serve. So I did. For  _ hours.  _ That’s when I met May.”

Fitz feels his eyebrows raise at the mention of other woman, genuinely surprised to learn of their first encounter. “Really?”

“Mmmhmm. Apparently she'd been keeping tabs on me after an acquaintance had mentioned me to her. Told me to stop what I was doing and come with her. For some reason I  _ did _ and she took me to a Nando’s of all places.”

The visual of Jemma and May having a chat in a chicken shop brings a laugh out of him and he grins when even Jemma gives a small snort.

“Is that where she begged you to play at her secret training facility?”

“Nope. That’s where she told me to quit tennis.”

“ _ What?!”  _ He pulls back in shock, sure that her words, muffled against his chest, were misheard. But Jemma just releases another small laugh and nods her head at his surprise, matter of factly saying, “She told me that I needed to take a break, that I needed to stop focusing on winning long enough to remember why I started playing tennis in the first place.”

“Wow.”

He can't imagine  _ Melinda May _ , the woman notorious for being one of the strictest trainers on the circuit, encouraging her top player to  _ quit.  _ It's especially difficult to believe coming from Jemma, who's equally known for being one of the more ruthlessly competitive women in the sport.

“She drove me home, left me her card, and told me to call her when I was ready. My parents were  _ furious  _ when I told them but I held my ground, went back to school, and quit tennis cold turkey.”

Fitz looks at her, trying to catalogue every micro expression on Jemma’s face, before nudging her with a grin, knowing that this isn't the end of the story. “But you missed it.”

Jemma smiles softly at him, nodding her head slowly and giving a small shrug before continuing.

“I did. Not right away mind you. I was enjoying being a teen and sleeping past six on the weekends too much. But one day I was cleaning out my closet and I saw my racquet bag just hanging there and…”

“You called May.”

Jemma gives another firm nod. “Then and there.”

It's silent for a long moment and Fitz watches as Jemma fingers a frayed piece of twine atop the net. He looks at her thoughtful, slowly trying to fit this new information with the puzzle that is beginning to take shape before him, before commenting, “I would have thought your parents would've been  _ happy _ about it.”

Jemma sniggers at that, rolling her eyes dramatically as she leans against the net. “Oh they were  _ ecstatic.  _ Melinda  _ May _ offering to train their daughter? They were positively gleeful. Until she came by the next week and told them that they would have  _ zero  _ involvement in any aspect of my training and my education would take precedence. Those were the conditions. My parents would stay in London, she'd be my guardian in the states, training me night and day, but I couldn't compete,  _ really _ compete, until  _ after  _ graduating. Until I was absolutely  _ sure  _ that I wanted to.”

It's silent for a long moment as Fitz processes Jemma’s words. When he thinks of May’s conditions and Jemma’s description of her parents, he can't help but snort. “Bet that went over well.”

Jemma releases a rueful laugh of her own, arching a brow and saying, “So well that I got emancipated.”

She says it in a way that makes it seem as though she's trying to appear unaffected, like removing herself from her parents’ controlling grip was an easy feat, but there's a lingering sadness in her expression that immediately has Fitz stepping forward and leaning his forehead against Jemma’s. She lets out a soft sigh and fists her fingers around his shirt. They're quiet save for the sound of their breathing and Fitz shuts his eyes at the intimacy of it all.

As much as he'd like to stay in this moment of bliss, Jemma’s honesty motivates him to make his own confession. He’s fairly certain that the announcement that had gone ignored the week prior in the press room  _ won’t _ be by Jemma and he takes a long breath through his nose before murmuring, “Wimbledon is my last tournament.”

He feels Jemma stiffen in his arms a moment before she pulls back from his loose embrace, brow furrowing at his statement and head shaking slightly as she says, “What do you mean?”

Fitz pulls in another deep breath, suddenly feeling utterly exhausted, and gives a small shrug as he refuses to meet Jemma’s questioning gaze.

“Win or, more likely,  _ lose…  _ this is my last tournament. No matter what happens. I… I’m done with tennis. After this, I’m done.”

He glances quickly in her direction, noting the way her eyes are blinking rapidly and unsurprised that he can practically  _ see  _ the cogs turning in her mind.

“You… you're  _ quitting?  _ But why?”

Her voice is soft, laced with such genuine confusion that Fitz almost laughs. Instead, he raises his hands and exclaims, “You  _ know  _ why. I’ve been doing this for  _ fifteen years  _ Jemma. And what have I accomplished? Cracked the Top Ten once? Great.  _ That's  _ definitely worth the broken back, years away from my mum, and general stress that came along with it.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, releasing a sharp sigh and trying to ignore the headache that this topic has always caused him. The weariness that has been lying dormant in his system for  _ years _ seems to be surfacing all at once in this moment and Fitz can't quite find it in him to fight it. He rubs his hands over his face with a small groan before lifting his head again any meeting Jemma’s gaze.

“I love this game, I really do but… I just can't handle it anymore. You were right, I'm not cut out for it. The pressure… it's never going away because it's  _ me  _ putting it there. So this is it. This is my last tournament and when I lose, I'm done.”

It's silent for a few beats, Jemma looking at him with an undefinable expression on her face, before she steps closer and re-loops her arms around his neck. He shuts his eyes at the contact, a bit embarrassed by the prickling beneath his lids, before reopening them at the warm press of Jemma’s lips against his cheekbone.

He glances down at her, a bit worried to see her reaction this close, and finds himself simultaneously surprised and relieved by the look of understanding on Jemma’s face.  Beneath it he swears he sees a flicker of disappointment, for what he's not entirely sure, but Jemma is quick to rub her thumb along the worried crease of his brow and make him unable to question the lingering sadness in her gaze. The physical gesture almost immediately puts him at ease, relieving him of a small portion of the weight he feels as though he's been carrying on his shoulders for a decade.

She holds his gaze, fingers slowly scratching through the stubble along his jaw, before giving him a soft smile and leaning up to give him an even softer kiss to the lips.

When she falls back to her feet, Jemma’s eyes are dancing as she tells him, “Well then, I suppose you’ll just have to…”

“Keep winning?”

He finishes her sentence with a wry smirk and accompanying snort that he expects will pull a laugh from Jemma. Instead, she looks at him more seriously than he can remember her  _ ever  _ being and nods her head determinedly.

“Exactly.  _ Keep winning.” _

He wants to remind her that, for most people, winning Wimbledon isn't exactly an easy feat, but Jemma must know exactly what he's planning to say because she fists her hands in his shirt again and pins him down with a stare.

“You've been nothing short of extraordinary this whole time, Fitz. Winning  _ three more _ matches? You can do that.”

She says it so decisively, with such ease and assurance, that Fitz finds himself actually starting to  _ believe  _ her. As if she can hear his thoughts, Jemma taps her fingers against his chest and continues, “You  _ can  _ take it Fitz. I see it, Daisy sees it, and soon you'll see it yourself.”

He finds himself at a loss for words, suddenly overwhelmed by the confidence Jemma has in him, and opts to lean forward and pull her into a languid kiss rather than try to articulate how much her certainty means to him.

She responds eagerly, shifting her hands so that they're gripping his hair rather than his shirt, and the enthusiastic press of her lips makes him immediately breathless. He pulls her closer still, tightening his grip on her waist and becoming entirely lost in the feel of Jemma’s lips against his as they move in an even push and pull. 

When they break apart, Fitz feels sluggish and wired all at once, his heart and breathing going a million miles a minute while his eyes fight to flutter open. When they  _ do  _ he's greeted with the sight of Jemma grinning up at him, a glinting light in her eyes that causes another burst of adrenaline to shoot through him. He can't stop himself from pressing back in again, grabbing Jemma’s face in his hands and pouring everything he can into this kiss. Every fear, hope, thought, and desire that has flooded him since first encountering her smirking at him from her shower.

He's not sure whether or not Jemma can  _ tell  _ what it is he's trying to say, but Fitz feels something shift, almost imperceptibly, at the next pass of his tongue. The almost harried pace of the kiss slows, remaining just as passionate while simultaneously becoming infinitely more measured. There's a consciousness to this kiss, fueled by a thoughtful desire rather than unrelenting hormones, and Fitz suddenly knows that he'll never experience something this potent with anyone else.

The thought almost cripples him, the reminder that whatever this is is transitory making him remember that such earth-shattering experiences are limited only to the  _ very  _ near future. Though, the way he can feel Jemma’s lips curling up into a smile as he pulls away causes another shot of hope to move through him, prompting him to again wonder whether she might be warming to the idea of something a bit more permanent.

_ Surely she can't still feel this is just a fling? _

He's pleased to find that he's able to open his eyes first, reveling in this slow flutter of Jemma’s eyelids as she meets his gaze. He doesn't bother trying to subdue his grin, instead letting the beaming smile hijack his face and make it clear how utterly enamored he is with the woman before him. Were it daytime, or at the very least were there more than a solitary lamp in the vicinity, Fitz is certain that he'd see a rosy tint to Jemma’s cheeks. Though, whatever bashful softness is present is immediately replaced by a look that is all heat.

She stands on her toes, inching forward until her mouth is just grazing his own before shifting direction and allowing her lips to brush against his ear.

“Let's get a move on, Fitz. Time to workout.”

The way her hands slowly trail down his chest, pulling away after getting tantalizingly close to the drawstring of his sweatpants, makes it seem pretty clear that Jemma's not looking to go  _ running. _

“Just… just to be clear. By  _ workout  _ you mean…”

She's nodding her head before he can finish his sentence, tacking on, “The fun kind,” as she grabs his hand and begins tugging him back towards the small entrance gate of the court.

“Ugh. Ellipticals  _ aren’t  _ fun Jemma.”

She throws her head back in laughter at his joke before turning around and walking backwards as her eyes rove over him. “Oh I agree completely. Spinning has always been my preference. After all, I do love to ride.”

She drops his hand at that, pushing the gate open with a mischievous gleam in her eyes and leaving him open-mouthed as both his mind and anatomy interpret her words.


	19. Mayday

By some miracle, one that has  _ nothing  _ to do with the amount of energy each of them respectively expended during their workouts the evening prior, Fitz wakes up before Jemma the next morning.

She's curled against him, head resting on his chest and hair falling in messy curls, and Fitz can't help but once again marvel at how relaxed she appears in sleep. Much like their drive from London, her face and body lack their usual rigidity, and Fitz has to fight the urge to run his finger over the smooth expanse of skin exposed to him. The sheet they'd used as a makeshift blanket during the night is now pooled across their waists, leaving the upper half of Jemma’s body  _ not _ pressed flush against him open to his gaze. The smattering of freckles that he's growing more and more used to each day stand out against her pale skin and the even paler bedspread. He tries to catalogue each small pigment of skin, smiling as he thinks about all of the ones hidden from sight beneath the bedsheet.

Her measured breaths fan out over his chest and he watches in fascination as a scatter of goosebumps appear where her mouth hovers above his skin. He feels a bit creepy just staring at her, silently hoping that she doesn't wake up and catch him in the act, but knows that Jemma likely wouldn't give him the opportunity to observe her this intensely otherwise. Her nose wrinkles when a stray lock of hair falls across it and Fitz gingerly tucks it behind her ear before the tickling sensation stirs her from her sleep.

He can just make out the sound of the ocean a few streets over and shuts his eyes at the quiet calmness of this moment.

It’s not long before the peaceful silence is broken by a loud grumble of his stomach and Fitz tenses when Jemma stirs at the noise. He releases a relieved sigh when she merely burrows further into him, still sleeping soundly, before realizing that extracting himself out from under her without  _ waking  _ her will now be that much more challenging. He bites his lip in contemplation as he tries to determine the best way to maneuver himself with minimal risk of waking Jemma before slowly beginning the process.

He starts by blindly untangling his legs from where they're entwined with Jemma’s beneath the sheet and gives a mental fist pump when he manages to extract them without causing so much as her breathing to change. Easiest part done, Fitz lays with his legs dangling off the side of the bed as he tries to figure out the best means of no longer being Jemma’s human pillow.

He opts to combine the moves made famous by Indiana Jones and Ross Gellar respectively, hugging Jemma closer while simultaneously shifting so that her head makes the smooth transition from chest to pillow. He holds his breath for a long moment, anxious to see if Jemma is as privy to the shift as Indy’s booby-trapped cave, and sighs in relief when she immediately snuggles down into the bed and tightens her hold around the down pillow.

Pulling himself off the bed, Fitz makes a quick scan of the room for his boxers, eyebrows raising when he finds them atop the light fixture in the corner. Once he pulls them on, he picks up the comforter that had fallen to the ground sometime between rounds two and three and gently lays it over the now lightly-snoring Jemma, grinning when she unconsciously tugs it tighter around her body until only her head and toes are peaking out from beneath it.

He slowly pads his way into the flat’s kitchen, determined to fix a brunch that will both quell his stomach’s rumbling  _ and  _ be worthy of pulling Jemma from sleep. Opening the fridge, he has to stifle an amused groan when he's met with the sight of  _ nothing _ save for a few beers and an expired bottle of sriracha.  Tossing the sauce into the rubbish bin, Fitz quietly makes his way to Jemma’s ensuite closet and smiles as he pulls on another shirt she'd unknowingly stolen from him. The sweatpants he'd worn for their jog are still laying in the hallway where Jemma had tugged them off him the night before and he yanks them up his legs before lacing up his Chucks.

Finding a scrap of paper, he hastily writes a note telling Jemma that he's popping over to the market, leaving it in plain view on the small table by the breakfast nook, before grabbing his wallet, making his way to the door, and quietly exiting the flat.

Thankfully, the market Fitz had spotted on their run last night is only a few streets from the flat, overlooking the water and likely the inspiration for some sort of Midsomer Murders special. He makes quick work of the little shop, pulling all of the ingredients needed for a proper English breakfast and, despite his personal tastes, throws in a few vegetables that he  _ knows _ Jemma would get were she in charge of the shopping list.

The elderly man working the till gives Fitz a knowing look as he rings him up, glancing at his attire and the breakfast ingredients before shooting him a conspiratorial wink. Fitz feels his cheeks redden at the man’s silent statement and hurriedly grabs his bags, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you,” before making a hasty exit.

He re-enters the flat as silently as possible, wincing when a stray tomato falls out of the bag and lands on the floor with a thud. Peeking down the hall to the open doorway of Jemma’s bedroom, Fitz is happy to see that she is still slumbering away- unaware and unbothered by his movements.

He carefully carries the shopping bags into the kitchen, placing them atop the counter and pulling down the few pots and pans hanging from the racks above the sink to get started in breakfast. After turning on the stove, Fitz begins the process of pulling each ingredient out of the bags and organizing them into piles. Making a quick calculation of how long each breakfast option will take to cook, Fitz grabs what he needs for pancakes and begins working on the batter. Once satisfied that the butter, eggs, flour, and sugar have been whisked together to perfection, Fitz puts the batter aside and flicks a droplet of water onto the griddle.

Satisfied by the immediate crackling sizzle that he hears, Fitz begins pouring the batter into the pan, grinning as the familiarity of making pancakes in the morning. As he glances around the unfamiliar drawers in search of a spatula, his smile widens at the fact that  _ this time  _ he's not making pancakes for one. Once four of the cakes have been poured, and Fitz has confirmed that each are equidistant from the center of the flame below, he grabs the packet of sausages and bacon and carefully plunks them into the second awaiting frying pan. The smell of the breakfast meats hits his nose immediately and Fitz feels utterly canine when he begins to salivate.

After flipping the first batch of pancakes, and keeping a watchful eye on the sausages, Fitz embarks on yet another scavenger hunt. He quietly opens each of the cabinets in search of plates and gives a small fist-pump when he finally comes across a neat stack of porcelain. After placing a few atop the counter, Fitz grabs one and begins to load the cooked pancakes onto the plate before pushing it to the side and pouring the second round of batter. He works methodically, removing each cake when they’ve become perfectly golden and stacking them atop one another. A second plate is filled with all of the bacon and sausages, save for one which goes directly from the griddle into his mouth.

With the last of the batter poured, Fitz cracks a handful of eggs, whisking them together while tossing in some of the pre-cut greens that he’d purchased with no intention of eating himself. Adding a handful of cheese to counter the healthiness of the spinach and scallions, Fitz feels  _ almost  _ satisfied with the omelette fixings. Plucking the last of the pancakes from the stove, he eyes the bowl of eggs and rabbit food and tries to think of what he's  _ convinced _ is missing.

Scratching his head in contemplation, he runs through the list of purchases he'd made and snaps his fingers as he realizes what's yet to be added to the mixture. He's  _ just  _ begun searching the countertops for the missing ingredient when an amused voice causes him to immediately straighten.

“Want to tell me why this poor tomato was sitting all by its lonesome in the hallway?”

He pivots on the spot and is greeted with the sight of Jemma leaning against the doorframe with a smirk on her face and a tomato in her hand. It only takes a few strides before Fitz is is able to snatch said tomato from her grasp and attempt to block her from seeing what she has  _ clearly  _ already spotted.

“No. Go away!”

Jemma’s eyebrows raise at that and she shoots him an incredulous look as she crosses her arms over the dress shirt that she seems to have permanently commandeered. 

“ _Go_ _ away?!” _

She lets out a huff before easily maneuvering around him into the kitchen and surveying the piles of food and dishes alike. Fitz lets out a groan when she plucks a sausage from a nearby plate and sinks her teeth in it, throwing his hands up in exasperation when she turns around and faces him with a grin.

“Are you making me breakfast?”

“You're supposed to be in bed still! What's the point of making someone  _ breakfast in bed  _ if said someone isn't  _ in bed?  _ Then it's just  _ breakfast! _

Unsurprisingly, his petulant complaining doesn't phase Jemma in the least. She moves forward with a smile, looping her arms around his neck and quickly reminding him that she can render him entirely ineffective with minimal effort. His hands instinctively fall to her waist and he watches her avidly as she slowly raises to her toes, using her arms to pull him more snugly against her, and moves to just  _ barely  _ graze his lips with her own. It's not a kiss, just a teasing hint at friction, and when she pulls back Fitz feels his own head move forward in a bid to chase her.

“How about I help you finish making breakfast, climb back in bed, and  _ then  _ you can bring it to me.”

He blinks a few times in an attempt to clear the Jemma-induced fog from his mind, processing her words and rolling his eyes at her proposition. “You're an odd duck, you know that?”

Jemma shoots him a conspiratorial wink and falls back to her feet, letting her hands move over his chest before shifting them to rest atop his arms. “Certainly isn't the worst thing I've been called.”

“ _ Jemma.” _

_ “Fitz.” _

She pairs the rebuttal with a firm poke to the chest and Fitz lets out a sigh at the realization that his attempt at romancing Jemma with breakfast in bed has effectively been thwarted. He lets his head drop to her shoulder, careful not to purr when Jemma’s hands immediately begin to card through his hair, and mumbles into her shirt.

“I'm not winning this one am I?”

He both hears and feels her snort of laughter as it reverberates through her and raises his head to see the amused expression on her face.

“Oh, Fitz. With me, you'll  _ never  _ win.”

_ Don't I know it. _

“Fine then. Cut the bloody tomato.”

-O-

Perhaps unsurprisingly, having Jemma help prepare the last of breakfast was infinitely more enjoyable than had Fitz completed the task himself.

Due largely to the fact that Jemma Simmons is an utterly  _ terrible  _ cook.

Something that Fitz found endlessly amusing considering her superiority in most other things. Her frustration, and  _ his  _ laughter, increased with each burnt egg until she finally thrust the spatula back into his outstretched hand and watched with her arms crossed and brow furrowed as he attempted to save breakfast.

In the end, it had taken twenty minutes longer than it should have to conjure up a passable omelette, the  _ fifth _ that Jemma had attempted to make, and by the time it was ungracefully slid onto the awaiting plate, the rest of the spread had gone cold. He'd all but herded Jemma back to  bed at the realization, ensuring that she'd make good on her promise to allow him to bring her breakfast in bed, before quickly turning on the warmer and popping the prepared food into the oven to reheat.

_ Now _ he's putting the final touches on the meal, grinning at the small vase of flowers he'd managed to scrape together and tastefully arrange between the food adorning the breakfast tray. Placing two steaming cups of coffee and chilled glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice on the tray, Fitz gives the final product a final once over before carefully picking it up and making his way towards the bedroom.

When he makes it into the room, he can't help but laugh at the sight of Jemma laying on her stomach spread-eagled atop the bed in a magnificent show of a woman deep in sleep. The slight upturn of her lips at the sound of his laughter makes it pretty clear that she's enjoying this opportunity to act and Fitz moves to put the tray of food on the bedside table before bouncing on the square foot of space on the bed that Jemma  _ isn’t _ taking up.

He gives her shoulder a small shake, grinning when Jemma responds with a particularly unbelievable snore, before running his hand along her back.

“You better be faking it.”

He gives a quick squeeze to her midsection that causes Jemma to let out a squeal and turn over to avoid potential tickling. Were it not for the mischief written all over her face, Fitz would describe her as being utterly adorable, hair intentionally mussed and eyes shining in the late-morning glow

“With you? Always.”

It takes him half a second to grasp the context of Jemma’s words and the smirk on her face, and when he does he puts on a show of his own, stabbing his chest with an invisible knife and falling across the bed on top of her with a groan.

“You wound me.”

Jemma’s laughter surrounds him as she shakes with it, and Fitz grins against her stomach at the sound. He waits until it peters out before pushing himself up enough to sit hip-to-hip beside her. He reaches over with a groan and pulls the tray of food from the bedside table and balances it between them. Turning to Jemma with an easy grin, he plucks one of the small flowers from the vase and tucks it behind her ear as he says, “At least I know you won't be faking any moans while eating this feast. Breakfast is my specialty.”

He gives her a wink as he chomps into a piece of bacon before offering her the rest, smiling as she leans her head forward and eats it from his fingers.

She chews slowly, humming appreciatively and staring speculatively at him as she does. When she swallows, Jemma’s head cocks to the side and she raises an eyebrow at him as she questions, “You're not going to try and convince me to praise your sexual prowess?”

Fitz waves her off, briefly wondering which of her previous trysts were insecure enough to make such a request, and snatches a pancake from the plate with a shrug. “Nah. I'm pretty confident that no woman who’s had to  _ fake it _ with someone would then whisk them away to a secret beachside flat for two days of debauchery.”

He gives her a knowing look at that, delighting in the way that her eye roll does nothing to hide the faint  blush blooming across her cheeks.

“Perhaps the whisking was simply because I like your company.”

He pauses at the soft words and shifts his gaze from the food in front of him to the woman beside him. It's the closest Jemma has come to verbally admitting any sort of feelings for him, to confirming what he's suspected for some time in that this  _ relationship _ isn't strictly casual. Jemma seems to be equally aware of the implication behind her words, eyes not quite meeting his and instead focused on where her finger is now gently roving over the stubble along his jaw. 

There's an insecurity to her behavior, as though she's baring herself and waiting for her pseudo-admission to be brushed aside, and Fitz wants to assure her that her comment is neither unnoticed nor unreciprocated.  In fact, the quasi confession that this unexpected holiday was born more from Jemma’s desire to  _ spend time with him _ than to simply fool around with minimal interruptions is perhaps the greatest thing that Fitz has ever heard.

And makes him feel a bit less ridiculous for falling in love with her.

While Jemma’s shy admittance seems to be evidence of a huge leap forward in their relationship, Fitz is certain that him professing his love for her will undo any progress, and instead opts to acknowledge his feelings towards her  _ comment  _ rather than Jemma herself. 

“Well… that's… that’s a good reason too. I um… I quite enjoy the sex but… but I like you a whole lot more.”

He knows it’s the right thing to say when Jemma gives him a pleased smile before ducking her head, reaching for the remote, and snuggling back up against him. As he munches on another pancake, Jemma flicks on the television and the room is instantly filled with the sound of commentary.

“Coming off back-to-back-to-back victories in the French, US,  _ and  _ Australian Opens, British darling Jemma Simmons is the U.K.’s best bet at securing a Wimbledon title this year.”

“You can say that again, Mike. Simmons is inarguably having her best year of tennis yet and claiming this fourth and final Grand Slam would be an extraordinary feat for the female World Number One, making her only the fourth in women’s singles to consecutively win each of the majors.”

“And I don't think anyone’s doubting she can do it. Her natural talent and seemingly unbreakable focus, combined with having former champion Melinda May as her coach, puts Simmons in a comfortable position to take it all this year.”

“Cut to the men, the U.K. also has another potential Wimbledon winner in Surrey’s Tom Watson, who's been in top form these few weeks and could very well leave a victor.”

Shifting slightly on the bed, Fitz does is utmost to maintain a passively disinterested expression at the change in subject, but he can't help but stiffen slightly at the commentator’s next segue.

“Not to mention, Scotland’s Leo Fitz is still in the running and…”

The sharp laugh of the other commentator drowns out the remainder of the sentence and Fitz slouches lower in the bed, all too aware of what's coming.

“The likelihood of Fitz making it through the  _ next round _ is slim, Jeff. His chances of actually  _ winning Wimbledon  _ are nonexistent. I think it's safe to say that Britain isn't putting  _ any  _ of their eggs in Fitz’s basket. I'd say most are surprised he's still around at all considering...”

The rest of the statement is effectively cut off as Jemma pounds a button on the remote and angrily mutters, “What a wanker,” under her breath.

His chuff of laughter is more instinctive than genuine and the fact doesn’t go unnoticed by Jemma as she tilts her head up where it’s resting on his shoulder and says, “Forget them, Fitz.”

He lets out a noncommittal hum at that, impassive expression firmly affixed to his face until he feels the soft press of Jemma’s lips against his neck. The physical gesture produces an instant smile and effectively diminishes the insecurities that resurged with the professional opinion regarding his minimal chances of advancing any further. The small upturn of his lips must not convince Jemma though because in the next moment she’s using her hand to tilt his head towards hers and leans up to press her lips firmly to his.

It starts off soft, simple and basic, but in a moment her fingers are tugging at his hair and her sugary-sweet tongue is coaxing his mouth open in a kiss that causes his brain to shut down completely. When she pulls away, his eyes remain firmly shut for a few long moments before he manages the strength to sluggishly open them. When he does, he finds Jemma nonchalantly popping a strawberry into her mouth as though she  _ hadn’t  _ just given him one of the best mid-morning snogs of his life. Managing to reboot his brain, Fitz waits until Jemma glances over at him before asking, “What was that for?”

She plucks a pancake off of the tray before giving him a small shrug and an easy grin, replying with, “Seemed like the easiest way to make you forget.”

“Forget wh…”

He pauses for a moment to replay the past few minutes and then lets out a genuine laugh at Jemma’s statement, blushing at how easily he’s just proven it correct. Wrapping an arm around her shoulder and tugging her closer against him, Fitz snatches the remote from her and begins jabbing at the buttons in an attempt to find something to watch. Jemma only permits his rapid channel-surfing for a minute before she grabs the remote back out of his hand, pointing it to change the TV herself before pausing to take in the image on the screen. 

Fitz lets out a low whistle as TMZ shows a hoard of paparazzi surrounding a woman, screaming questions over one another to the point where none are actually decipherable. He can’t  _ quite  _ make out who it is, various cameras and microphones obscuring much of her face but he still can’t help but marvel, “Amazing how much that actress looks like May.”

He glances over at Jemma, now kneeling on the bed with her gaze zeroed in on the television, and waits for her to agree. She nods her head slowly, eyes never leaving the screen and brow furrowing with each passing second. “Yeah… and that building…”

The rest of her statement is cut off when the camera angle shifts and Fitz catches a glimpse of the coupe sitting curbside. “Hey, look! Nice car. Just like mine.”

He casts another glance in Jemma’s direction and finds that she doesn’t seem to share the excitement of seeing the twin of his classic automobile on TV. Instead, her mouth is open and her hands are fisted in the duvet as though she might tear it in two. He gives her a confused look, one that goes entirely unnoticed, before turning back to the television and furrowing his  _ own  _ brows as he catches a better look at the silver coupe.

“Weird. It even has the same plate num…”

Jemma is out of the bed before he can finish the statement and it’s that rapid movement more than anything that makes things click. His eyes widen as he glances back at the TV and realizes why Jemma is suddenly so panicked.

“Oh… Oh that's not good.”

He watches Jemma bolt to the window, quickly peeking behind the curtains to look at the street below, as  _ May  _ simultaneously walks past  _ his  _ car and up to  _ Jemma’s  _ building.

“Shit _.” _

At that, Jemma whips around from the window, flattening her back against the wall as though hiding from a sniper, and curses,  _ “Fuck. _ ”

As if on cue, a door slams from the building’s landing, audible even from here, and Jemma’s eyes widen at the sound. Fitz can see the panic flash across her face and pushes himself off the bed so that he can crowd against her and calm her down in any way he can.

“Okay… just… relax, yeah? We’re adults! It’s not like we’re in  _ troub… _ ”

The deliberate sound of steps on the stairs immediately sets Jemma in action and, before he can even process what’s happening, she’s grabbing his arm, yanking him behind her, and pushing him towards the closet.

“You need to hide.

“ _ What?! _ ”

The sound of a key in the lock causes Jemma to bodily shove him into the walk-in as she hisses, “ _ Hide _ !”

“You can’t be seri…”

She slaps a hand over his mouth before he can properly tell her how utterly ridiculous she's being, shooting him a stern look before saying, “May doesn’t miss much but if you think you can leave without her noticing,  _ do it. _ ”

“Jem…”

She shuts the door before he can finish protesting and Fitz watches through a small crack as Jemma throws herself back into bed and hastily changes the channel back to the tennis analysis.

Not a second later, Fitz hears the sound of measured footsteps coming from the hall and feels himself stiffen. As ludicrous as this entire situation is ( _ he's hiding in a closet like some teenager for Christ sake)  _ he still finds himself suddenly nervous knowing that Melinda May is a few steps away from the room.

It feels a bit like the time he broke his mum’s favorite teacup and hid anxiously under his bed covers. While his mum hadn't been upset with him, the nerves he'd felt hearing her footsteps draw nearer to his bedroom had been utterly terrifying. And he's fairly certain that  _ May’s  _ are infinitely more nerve-wracking to hear.

Soon enough, she’s visible through the crack in the closet and Fitz feels himself tense as she makes herself known with a stern, “Jemma.”

While he knows that it's entirely feigned, Fitz has to give Jemma credit for managing the perfect amount of pleasant and confused surprise. She makes a passable show of clambering out of bed and giving her mentor a quick hug before pulling away with a smile firmly affixed to her face.

“May! I didn't know you'd be stopping by. Hungry? I was just about to eat breakfast.”

She gestures towards the heaping tray still on the bedside table with a questioning look and Fitz holds his breath as he awaits May’s response.

“I can see that. It certainly looks like enough for two.”

While he can’t actually  _ see  _ her face, Fitz is positive that May’s brow is raised in challenge, clearly not holding back in trying to catch Jemma in a fib as early as possible. What he  _ can  _ see are the cracks beginning to show on Jemma as she thinks of how to respond. “Yes well… it's my day off and I wasn't sure if I was in the mood for sweet or savory so… why not both?”

May releases a low hum at that, throwing a glance down the hallway before returning her presumably terrifying gaze to Jemma. “And based on the number of pots and pans I saw in the kitchen… you cooked it all yourself. Which is strange considering the last time I asked you to make  _ toast _ , you started a fire instead.”

_ The damn dishes. _

Having witnessed in person how utterly awful Jemma is in the kitchen, Fitz is pretty certain they're busted at this point. In no world would May actually believe Jemma’s suddenly learned how to cook well enough to make the spread currently sitting on her bedside, and Fitz assumes that the best course of action is to simply walk out of the closet with his head hanging low.

Which makes it all the more surprising when Jemma merely shrugs and keeps the fib going.

Rather,  _ attempts  _ to.

“Yes well… amazing the difference clear instructions can have. I popped over to the diner yesterday morning and got some pointers from Sue.”

“Is that so?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Strange.”

“What?”

“It's just… you tend to be much more strict about your tournament diet. Don't you keep a nutrition journal to make sure you get a specific amount of servings from each food group?”

Fitz has to hold back a snort at that because of  _ course  _ Jemma is one of those players who journals about her food.

“ Yes well… it's been a taxing few weeks and I've burned quite a few calories so I figured…”

“Jemma,  _ enough _ .”

May’s voice isn't  _ sharp  _ per se, but it's commanding enough that Jemma immediately goes quiet. The older woman pulls in a deep breath before releasing it in an even deeper sigh and Fitz notes the way Jemma is now visibly fidgeting.

“I know how you like to stay  _ relaxed _ during tournaments…”

He sees Jemma wince slightly at the implication behind May’s words, her eyes flicking in the direction of the closet in what Fitz interprets as a silent apology for confirmation of her past relationships. And, while she certainly has nothing to apologize  _ for,  _ Fitz feels a small flicker of warmth at the thought that Jemma may not want to discuss the past because she sees them actually having a  _ future. _

“...and I don't normally have a problem with it. But it's different this time Jemma. Fitz is different.”

He sees Jemma physically react to his name, straightening immediately and shifting on her feet as though she'd very much like to make a break for it. He spots the smallest hint of surprise flicker across Jemma’s face and briefly wonders if she  _ actually  _ thought that May was mostly in the dark where they were concerned.

“May I don't…”

“You're falling for him.”

Jemma’s mouth snaps shut at that, her body going immediately slack as though May’s statement has entirely incapacitated her. Fitz meanwhile feels himself tense, his heart hammering and blood thrumming as he processes what May is saying. He can’t help but note that Jemma now seems to be steadfastly refusing to so much as  _ glance  _ in his direction, instead keeping her gaze firmly affixed on her mentor as she continues speaking.

“And it’s costing you.”

Jemma flinches at that but in the next second she's standing straight with a noticeable fire in her eyes. “That's not...”

“Your footwork is off, your serve is dropping, your slice is sloppy. You have  _ got  _ to get your head in the game Jemma. I have nothing against Fitz. He's a nice guy and a decent tennis player…”

Fitz feels his eyebrows lift on their own accord, the surprise at receiving not one but  _ two  _ compliments from May throwing him completely and making him feel as though some mental preening is warranted. That combined with the fact that she too thinks Jemma might actually be falling for him fills Fitz with a buoyancy that is far greater than anyone hiding in a closet would normally expect to experience.

Though, the  _ following  _ comment certainly causes a bit of deflation.

“...but he's in your head. If you're together, you can't play to the best of your ability. You can't play like a  _ champion _ .”

It's silent for a beat but to Fitz it's positively deafening. He can feel his heart hammering in his chest, the pulse throbbing in his throat, as he watches the warring emotions cross Jemma’s face. It's when he briefly spots resignation that he thinks May only needs one more swing of the hammer to nail this proverbial coffin shut. She seems to know it as well because in the next moment, May is moving towards Jemma and placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“You have to remember what you've worked for Jemma, you have to remember what you  _ want.” _

“I  _ do  _ know what I want!”

Jemma’s words come out as a shout and Fitz feels his heart swell when she moves past May and purposefully strides towards where he's hiding. The past few minutes have been a roller coaster of nerves and uncertainty, but seeing Jemma walking towards him with such determination causes the flicker of hope within him to grow larger than the sun.

_ Me. She wants me. _

When she yanks open the door, Fitz winces at the light and gives May an awkward little wave in an attempt to at least  _ lessen  _ the displeased look on her face. It doesn't do much good, only prompting her to raise a perfectly manicured brow and cross her arms. He gives her a nervous smile at that, casting a quick glance at Jemma in the hopes that she might give him some indication as to how  _ not  _ to bury himself any deeper, only to find her staring fixedly at his shoulder.

Realizing she won't be much help, Fitz lets out a small cough and shifts his focus back to May as he nervously flexes his fingers at his side. “Nice to see you again, May. How um… how was the rest of the part…”

“I need you to leave Fitz.”

It's something that he'd been expecting to hear, something he'd been  _ prepared  _ for the woman before him to say, but the fact that it's an  _ English _ voice that utters the words makes him feel as though he's just been run over by a freight train. He whips his head towards Jemma and feels a roiling in his stomach when he's met with  _ Simmons _ instead. She's still not  _ quite  _ looking at him, her eyes focused on some  vague spot behind him, and it's this more than anything that causes him to stutter out, “Wh…  _ what?” _

At the sound of his voice, Jemma’s gaze finally meets his and Fitz can  _ see  _ her fully shift into the no-nonsense tennis player that is so known to the public and such a stranger to him.

“May’s right. I've worked too hard for this to get distracted before the quarters.”

He takes a step forward, reaching out a hand before letting it fall to the side when Jemma crosses her arms over her chest in clear indication that she’s not looking for any sort of physical connection.

“Jemma you can't…”

She cuts him off before he can protest, before he can point out that they’re  _ adults  _ who are perfectly capable of maintaining a career and a  _ relationship,  _ and pins him down with her stare.

“I need to focus, Fitz. I came to Wimbledon to  _ win Wimbledon  _ and I… I can only do that by stepping back from… whatever this is.”

It's the wave of the hand that causes Fitz’s emotions to shift from sad confusion to anger and he takes another step closer as he snaps, “ _ Whatever this is?  _ Don't do that, don't dismiss this. I'm not like Will. I'm not… I'm not just some  _ fling _ .”

“ _ Exactly _ , Fitz. You're a distraction.”

He pulls back sharply, recoiling at the words, and stares at Jemma as though she’s slapped him. Though, a slap in the face might have been  _ less  _ painful than being deemed nothing more than a distraction to the girl he's become rather mad about. It’s not as though the description of him is anything new, May had already told him very clearly  _ what,  _ rather than  _ who,  _ he is to Jemma, but hearing Simmons so dismissively label him as a shiny trinket keeping her attention away from the  _ real  _ prize of the championship trophy feels like taking a dagger, bullet, and every other painful object straight to the heard.

Jemma herself must know how hard her words have hit him because she immediately winces, hand moving towards her forehead in a nervous tick and eyes squeezing shut as she shakes her head.

“Not a… I didn't mean it like that.”

He lets out a derisive snort, finding no reason to pacify whatever guilt Jemma might now be feeling, and says, “Pretty sure that's exactly how you meant it.”

_ He’d _ meant for it to sound heated, for it to be a cinematic moment in which the jilted lover is able to convey all of the anger and bitterness roiling beneath, but it comes out more like a small child experiencing hurt for the first time. It’s like simultaneously learning that Santa Claus isn’t real, Rick Blaine didn’t get the girl, and bread makes you fat.  He lets out a tired sigh, the high of the morning now replaced with a new low, and decides that the least painful option is to simply get out before Jemma can further explain his role in her life. So he pushes his way fully out of the closet, brushing past both Jemma and May to scoop his shoes from where he’d kicked them off beside the bed, and turns back to leave the room.

“Fitz.”

With his eyes trained on the floor he can’t make out whatever expression of Jemma’s is paired with the emotion she infuses into his name, but he knows that if he doesn’t make some indication that he’s heard her, she’ll only do something to confirm that he has. So he gives a small wave and mumbles, “It's fine Jemma. There's nothing to discuss,” before moving to walk past her towards the door. 

He only makes it a step or two before he finds himself being stopped by a tugging at his hand and a whispered, “Maybe there is.”

He sucks in a breath, tensing at both Jemma’s words and the warm feeling of her palm against his. He pinches the bridge of his nose and slowly, _methodically,_ releases his breath before turning back to face Jemma. There are too many emotions on her face for him to catalogue but it's plain to see that she's struggling to say whatever it is she couldn't let him leave without hearing. When the silence stretches out, Fitz raises a brow, prompting Jemma to step closer and earnestly say, “Fitz. With you I… I lose focus. I can't concentrate. It's… you _distract_ me. I just… for _now_ I just… tennis needs to be my priority.”

Her eyes are pleading and, despite the lingering sting from her choice of words, he understands what Jemma is getting at. Having heard firsthand the work she's put in for this sport, and the sacrifices she's made, he can understand her desire to have as few  _ distractions  _ as possible for this final week of Wimbledon.

_ Just a week. Right? A week’s not so bad. _

“Yeah. Yeah I get it.”

Moving to leave, he's once again stopped by Jemma squeezing his hand.

“Fitz…”

Looking her in the eyes, and infusing as much understanding in his expression as possible, Fitz honestly says, “I  _ get  _ it.”

He waits for a long moment as Jemma’s eyes flit across his face, no doubt trying to determine how genuine he's being, before giving a short nod and leaning forward to press a sweet kiss to her cheek. He doesn't wait to see her reaction, instead ducking his head to avoid her gaze and throwing a stiff wave in May’s direction as he once again moves to leave.

He's not surprised by how much it stings when he isn't pulled back this time, Jemma dropping his hand and letting him go without another word.

He makes his way out of the flat, not quite  _ slamming  _ the door but certainly shutting it behind him harder than necessary, and shoves on his shoes before making his way down the stairs to the building’s entrance. Opening the door, lost in thought, he comes to an abrupt halt at the sight before him.

“Ah fuck.”

Too distracted by his personal life, he'd forgotten who was lurking outside Jemma’s apartment building and only has about two seconds before the paparazzi take note of his appearance and swarm him as he fights his way to his car.

“Fitz! Fitz!”

“Jemma’s not a bad consolation prize if you tank, is she!”

“How long have you two been seeing each other? Simmons’ record is five weeks, have you broken it yet?”

“Is she as good in bed as she is on the court?”

Lucky for the pap who’d shouted  _ that  _ question, Fitz is already turning the ignition in his car when he says it, otherwise he likely would have used what upper body strength he has to punch that lecherous smile off the other man’s face. He actually contemplates getting out for the sole purpose of doing so but instead keeps his mouth shut, his eyes on the windshield, and his foot on the gas as he peels away from the crowd and, more importantly, Jemma.


	20. Quarterfinals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only just realized that people who aren't particularly versed with tennis might not get the game/set nonsense I frequently mention so here's a quick breakdown...
> 
> You need four points to win a game. But of course it can't just be 1, 2, 3, 4. Points are broken down as 15, 30, 40, winning point. So if the score is 15-40 that means the person serving has 1 point and the person receiving has 3.
> 
> You need to win 6 games to win a set.
> 
> Female players need 2 sets to win a match, male players need 3 sets to win a match. Tiebreakers are irrelevant as far as this story goes so that's all the confusion you'll need for now! :)

Unsurprisingly, the drive back into London is significantly less enjoyable without Jemma curled up in the seat beside him.

It also feels about twice as long as it should due exclusively to the fact that Fitz spends the entirety of the journey trying to figure out how in the hell he'd gone from being whisked away to a beachside brownstone by the most extraordinary woman he's ever met, to returning to his little hotel room alone.  He spends a good portion of the drive replaying every exchange from their getaway, both good and bad, in the hopes that he'll be able to at least figure out where he and Jemma now stand.

While she hadn't actually  _ said  _ that this separation will be temporary, there had been, at least from what he could tell, a heavy implication that the end of Wimbledon could be the start of  _ them _ as something a bit more official. This had been a fairly uplifting thought until Fitz had begun to spiral at some point around the half-hour mark and think of the  _ less _ ideal scenarios. The largest being the very real chance that Jemma will decide that she'd rather not risk being distracted  _ ever  _ and cut ties completely without so much as giving him the chance to convince her otherwise.

By the time he finally pulls up to the Dorchester, Fitz finds himself convinced of only one thing: he has no bloody clue what the end of Wimbledon will mean for himself and Jemma.

He's always felt very much like a fish out of water where Jemma is concerned, meaning it's not all that surprising for Fitz to feel just as confused now as he had after their first run-in. Thankfully he’ll soon be able to listen to his own motto: _ if you can't solve a problem, sleep on it. _

There's a significant crowd waiting outside the hotel, some with camera equipment and others with tennis balls and Sharpies, and Fitz finds himself simultaneously annoyed and knackered by the sight. While in the past he would have been able to sneak by without anyone knowing or caring, now that he’s been publicly linked to  _ the Jemma Simmons,  _ he's not sure he'll be able to stay as incognito as usual. So, after handing off the key to the valet, he braces himself for whatever may come and keeps his eyes on the ground as he makes his way to the entrance.

He makes it ten feet away from the door before he hears, “Is that Leo Fitz?” and quickens his pace as the crowd begins to merge on him. It's another onslaught of the same questions he was asked earlier and he stubbornly keeps his mouth shut and his head down as he weaves his way through the throng of people. His mind briefly flashes to when he'd first seen Jemma make her way into the hotel, head held high and exuding confidence, and he wonders how she managed to make it seem so effortless.

He himself feels as though he might puke by the time he makes it through the hotel lobby and collapses into the lift with an exhausted sigh. The day seems to catch up with him all at once and he feels himself grow increasingly defeated with each floor the lift passes. By the time the soft ding echoes at his destination and he manages to drag himself out of the small box, Fitz is certain that he's made of lead.

He pushes into his room with another sigh and immediately proceeds to kick off his shoes, yank off his clothes, and head for the shower. Hoping the scalding water will be able to wash away more than just the sweat of the day, Fitz stays beneath the spray until his entire body is pink and the pounding in his head lessens to something manageable.

Tugging on a pair of boxers, he flops onto the bed with a groan and immediately shuts his eyes. Despite the fact that he can see the hotel phone flashing with unplayed messages beneath his eyelids, despite the fact that it's barely past 4:00, and despite the fact that he has a match at 10AM and hasn't picked up a racquet in days, Fitz drifts to sleep.

-O-

The next morning he awakens to a pillow in the face and Daisy and Trip looming over him like a grim reaper and guardian angel respectively. He rolls over on the bed, grabbing the pillow that smacked him awake and burrowing into it with a groaned, “Go away.”

In the next moment, the blanket is being ripped off of him and Daisy is prodding him as though he's farm cattle, jostling him harder when her poking only causes him to push his face further into the mattress.

“Wake the hell up Fitz.”

Shifting slightly, he cracks an eye open to take in his friends. Daisy looks more irritated than anything while Trip appears to be simultaneously amused and worried. “C’mon man. You've got a match in four hours, we need to get you warmed up.”

The reminder of the day ahead causes him to release another groan as he imagines how much of an embarrassment he’ll be on the court. Though it  _ appears  _ as though he's been deeply slumbering since arriving back in his room last evening, much of the night had actually been spent tossing and turning- his mind too busy to allow for a restful sleep.

“Can’t I just forfeit?”

The question prompts a twist to the ear that has Fitz swatting at his agent’s hands as she says, “Not when you haven’t signed those contracts yet.”

Pushing himself up into a sitting position, Fitz extends his arm in Daisy’s direction and motions as he says, “Okay give ‘em to me then. I’ll sign them right now and  _ then  _ forfeit.”

At that he receives yet another pillow to the face followed by a slight smack to the back of his head.

“Jesus Fitz, you made it to the quarterfinals of  _ Wimbledon _ . Stop being a baby, get your ass out of bed and put on some clothes. Car leaves in five.” Daisy gives him a stern look before turning on her heels and marching out the door, presumably expecting Trip to make sure that Fitz actually listens to her demand and hauls his butt out of bed.

He does so begrudgingly, scooting to the edge of the bed and letting his feet drop to the floor with a thud as he buries his face in his hands with a sigh.

“You wanna talk about it?”

He shakes his head immediately in response to Trip’s question, rubbing tiredly at his eyes before looking up and saying, “Not particularly.”

Trip nods in understanding, giving him an affectionate pat on the back that simultaneously feels sympathetic and reassuring. “Okay man.”

Fitz gives his friend an appreciative look as he pushes himself off the bed and snatches the clothes that Daisy must have laid out while he was sleeping.

“Okay, Daisy told me to babysit you but I think you can take it from here. I'll snag you a doggy-bag from the buffet while you get dressed and then meet you at the car. Good?”

“Yeah, thanks Trip.”

His friend gives him another pat on the back that seems to say more than actual words could have before making his way to the exit and leaving the room. He stares at the closed door for a few long moments, briefly wondering if he  _ should  _ have opened up to Trip, before shaking his head at what a truly terrible idea that would be.

Once dressed, Fitz moves to snag his racquet bag and leave when he stops as he catches sight of the hotel phone. Biting his lip in contemplation, he picks up the receiver and hits the number for reception. The phone rings twice before a chipper voice announces, “This is the Dorchester, how may I help you?”

“Yeah, can you patch me through to Jemma Simmons please? Room 21-12.”

It's silent for a brief moment and Fitz can hear the clacking of a keyboard on the other end of the line before the woman speaks again. “Oh I’m sorry sir, it appears that Ms. Simmons and May checked out last evening. I believe they were looking for a bit more privacy. Those paparazzi can be quite distracti…”

Not needing to hear about yet another one of Jemma’s  _ distractions,  _ Fitz hangs up the phone before the receptionist can finish her sentence, not feeling as bad about his rudeness as he probably should. Letting out an exasperated groan, he allows himself ten seconds of wallowing before hoisting his bag further up his shoulder and moving towards the door.

-O-

Down 4-1 in the second set after having already lost the first in spectacular fashion, Fitz sits in the blistering heat during a side-change and feels both smug and depressed to learn that Trip’s foolproof, pre-match, meditating in fact did _ not _ make him able to clear his mind enough to concentrate on winning.

The stands are packed with fans, faces painted red, white, and blue, English flags constantly moving in his eyeline, and Fitz wonders if it's better or worse to be knocked out by the nation’s most beloved player.

After the thought, a loud cheer erupts in the distance and Fitz has to mentally correct himself.

_ The nation’s  _ **_second_ ** _ most beloved player will be the one to knock him out. _

The reminder of just who is starting their own match a few courts over only adds to the crushing feeling of defeat that currently consumes him. Saying that the events of the past few days have had a drastic impact on his tennis game would be an understatement and Fitz can't help but find irony in the fact that Jemma distancing herself so as not to be distracted has proven to be more distracting to  _ him _ than anything.

Casting another glance at the scoreboard as he guzzles down water, Fitz rises with a sigh when the chair ump calls, “Time!” and makes his way to the baseline to serve for what could very well be the last time in his professional career.

Taking a ball from the proffered hand of the ball boy, Fitz offers the kid a small smile that grows at the genuine, “Good luck,” that he whispers.

He makes his way to the line, each step feeling like one closer to the noose, and attempts to take a steadying breath. Dropping the ball to the ground and easily catching it on its way back up, Fitz shuts his eyes and tries to focus only on the feeling of the mall fibers in his palm. Tossing the ball into the air and swinging his racquet down, Fitz watches in disappointment as the ball whizzes straight into the net.

_ Hell. _

Letting out an exasperated huff, Fitz holds out his hand and gives a short nod of thanks when a second ball is dropped into his palm. He bounces it against the grass, a few more times than usual in an attempt to stall for as long as is acceptable to focus. He pauses as he gets into his stance and sends a silent prayer to whichever dirty has had such fun making this a miserable experience thus far.

_ Don't double fault, please just don't double fault. _

He tosses the ball into the air and arcs his racquet a moment later, pulling back on his speed in favor accuracy. It lands where it's supposed to but Watson was ready for the slower speed and makes his return almost the instant that the ball touches down.

By some miracle, Fitz instinctually knows which direction the ball will be going, and moves across the court as it comes flying back over the net. He just barely manages to get his racquet on it in time, flicking his wrist and sending it back in the opposite direction while mentally crossing his fingers. Grazing the top of the net on its way over, the ball drops far shorter and faster than Watson had clearly anticipated it would. He rapidly shifts direction, moving forward instead of back, and Fitz watches as the other man races to reach the ball before it can bounce again.

He knows what's going to happen before it does, his mind immediately reverting back to his school years as he calculates the velocity and trajectory of his opponent, and he's already wincing as Watson’s ankle rolls to the side and causes the man to go crashing against the grass.

An audible gasp fills the stadium as Watson cliches at his ankle with a grimace and is immediately swarmed by his team and the on-site medic. Fitz looters for a moment until the ump calls for a time in order to assess the injury before walking over to the sides and plopping down on the chair to wait.

He runs a towel over his face, wiping sweat from his brow and doing his utmost to block out the sights and sounds around him. When he pulls away, he catches a glimpse of his opponent through the gaps between the people that surround him. Fitz can easily recognize the look in Watson’s eyes, it's one he himself has worn on multiple occasions, and finds no trouble in determining that the other man is doing his utmost to mask how much pain he's in. Feeling a flicker of pity, Fitz rolls the tennis balls in his hand as he watches his opponent have his ankle taped. 

He feels a bit guilty for hoping that the injury might result in a forfeit, and feels even worse when he realizes that, if the match continues, he'll be knocked out of Wimbledon by a player with one good leg.

_ Fuck. _

It's another few minutes spent in a pseudo fugue-state before the chair umpire declares it time to forfeit or resume. When Watson gets up, making a show of testing his ankle before giving the ump a nod, the crowd goes wild and Fitz has to stop himself from rolling his eyes at the theatrics of it all. He gives Watson a look, confirming that the other man is sure he's okay to play, and receives a thumbs up in response. Giving a short nod, Fitz hoists himself up from his seat and makes his way back to his side of the court. He catches the ball that is tossed to him while making a conscious effort to tune out the English rallying cry that has erupted in the stands.

“Quiet please.”

The cheers lessen to a low murmur at the ump’s signal for the match to resume and Fitz shuts his eyes in an attempt to regain some semblance of focus.

Another muffled cheer can be heard a few courts over and the sound makes Fitz wonder what Jemma would do were she in his position. It doesn't take long for him to come up with the answer that she would hit harder, run faster, and play better than she ever had before. She'd take every advantage given to her and would walk off the court with another victory.

_ But can he do that? Does he really have what it takes to play his best against an opponent at their worst? _

Fitz reflects back on his last match with Trip and realizes that, yes actually, he  _ can.  _ He’d taken Jemma’s advice then, using all of Trip’s known weaknesses against him, and the reminder causes a wave of adrenaline to surge through him.

Because if he can use his best mate’s weaknesses to his advantage, why the hell can’t he do the same now? 

Bouncing the neon ball against the grass, Fitz zeroes in on the foot that Watson is barely putting pressure on and makes a decision. He tosses the ball into the air, arching back and following its path with his eyes before extending his arm, snapping his wrist, and bringing his racquet down. The ball shoots down the court like a bullet from a gun and Fitz watches as it lands in the exact spot of grass that he'd been aiming for: the center of the service box, just grazing the singles line.

Watson can't even manage enough strength to push himself in the right direction before the ball is whizzing past him and smacking the back wall.

_ Ace. _

An eruption of cheers echoes through  _ his  _ stadium now and Fitz feels another rush at the sound of applause that is this time for  _ him.  _ His eyes flutter to the scoreboard as his points shift from 15 to 30 and he moves to the other side of the green with a newfound desire to _ win _ . Taking the ball that the runner hands him, Fitz is fueled by another surge of adrenaline and determination. Bouncing it once, twice, against the ground, he vows to let his body take over for his mind for the remainder of the match before tossing it into the air and waiting for the perfect time to snap.

-O-

“Holy fucking shit.”

The statement combined with the look of astonishment on Daisy’s face pulls a genuine laugh from Fitz as he exits the locker room. He'd gotten the slightly less off-color version of the exclamation in the press room, all of the reporters surprised to be talking to  _ him  _ rather than Tom Watson, but far prefers the lack of decorum that his agent chooses to display.

Enveloping him into an enormous hug as soon as he's close enough, Daisy marvel's, “You were  _ vicious  _ Fitz! I've never seen you play like that! A year ago, hell a  _ month  _ ago, you probably would have forfeited because you felt bad!”

When she pulls away she still looks a bit stunned by the turn of events, eyes flicking up in down in clear disbelief, and Fitz tries to seem as haughty as possibly when he replies, “Yeah well… things change.”

The show pulls a laugh from Daisy and she gives him a light punch to the shoulder before linking her arm through his and leading him through the tunnel in the direction of the exit. “ _ Clearly _ . It's a good thing you  _ didn't  _ commit to any of those sponsors because you've got another half-dozen rolling in. These guys  _ love  _ you.”

Fitz lets out a snort at that as he envisions the Cadbury bunny shitting itself some chocolate eggs in excitement of him making it one round further in Wimbledon. The visual quickly shifts to poor Mr. Edmunton, likely a bit peeved that his club is still without a tennis pro. He reflects on the fact that  _ nobody _ , save perhaps his mum, expected him to come so far… too busy gearing up to have Watson be the first British title holder in who knows how long. The reminder of just  _ who  _ he beat to get hear causes him to wince and say, “Yeah well they're the only ones who do.”

He doesn't fully realize the implication of his words until Daisy rubs his back with a sympathetic, “Fitz, she...,” and he rushes to make himself more clear before this conversation spirals into one about his love life.

“I just knocked out Britain’s only hope for a men’s Wimbledon title… bet this whole country hates me now.”

Daisy looks at him as though he’s speaking another language before smacking her forehead with an exasperated groan. The reaction confuses him and he gives her a defensive shrug when she glances at him again in incredulity.

“What!”

Shaking her head once more, Daisy detaches her arm from his and moves ahead of him to get the door while saying, “Surprising absolutely no one, you continue to be the densest of idiots.”

“What do you…”

His question dies on his lips when he walks out of the tunnel and is met with an uproar of applause and cheers. There's a sea of people, some waving Scottish flags but many still adorning their red, white, and blue face paint, and Fitz feels his mouth drop when they begin chanting his name. Daisy gives him an affectionate nudge, grinning when he looks over at her in astonishment.

“Britain  _ still _ has a player in the running you dummy.”

Fitz finds himself overwhelmed, letting his gaze flit between the cheering faces and Daisy, and takes a steadying breath before smiling and giving a cordial wave to his  _ fans.  _ He makes his way through the stretch of people, giving out high-fives left and right and gladly signing whatever memorabilia is thrust in his direction.

By the time he stumbles through the crowd, ten minutes have passed and the only thing he's feeling is dazed. Daisy looks positively buoyant by the whole thing, snapping not-so-discreet photos on her phone that Fitz is pretty sure will be flooding social media sooner rather than later.

They amble along for another few minutes before Fitz realizes that the third member of their party is missing. “Hey, where's Trip?”

Not taking her eyes off of her iPhone, Daisy waves her hand dismissively and says, “He went to catch the end of Jemma’s match while you were doing press.”

The fact that Trip is watching Jemma play tennis isn’t odd in and of itself, but the fact that he finished his match before her is a bit surprising to hear.

“She's still playing?!”

“Mmmhmm. They went into a third set. She should be finishing up soon if she hasn't already.” Daisy lowers her phone and glances up at him with an expectant expression as she continues, “Wanna go check it out?”

The knowing look she’s now giving him makes it pretty clear that he shouldn’t respond as emphatically as he’d like to unless he wants to open himself up to endless teasing. So rather than leaving Daisy in the dust and booking it to court 1 by himself, Fitz gives her a small smile and accompanying shrug.

“Yeah, sure.”

They make their way through the grounds, Daisy texting Trip to make sure the match isn't over yet, and Fitz feels himself grow both nervous and excited as they approach Jemma’s court. Though it's been less than a day since he's seen her, and they hadn’t exactly parted ways under the  _ best  _ of circumstances, his days are always a bit brighter when Jemma’s a part of them. 

Which is admittedly  _ pathetic _ .

To be in so deep after a few weeks of hook-ups and secret rendezvous is something that only he would manage to do. But, as crazy as it may be, Fitz knows with certainty that his feelings for Jemma aren't those of a mere  _ fling.  _ He's made more confessions, experienced more butterflies, and taken more strides in his life in the few weeks with Jemma than he has with anyone else in quite some time.

He's pulled from his thoughts, both physically and proverbially, as Daisy yanks on his arm and tugs him towards Jemma’s court. Flashing their grounds badges at the entrance, he and Daisy are waved into the entrance without issue. Climbing up to the VIP skybox, they weave their way through the suited bankers and low-grade royalty until they spot Trip leaning against the banister. When he catches sight of them, he opens his arm with a grin and yanks Fitz into a bear hug that couldn’t be topped by an actual bear. When he pulls away, the smile has somehow managed to grow, showcasing each and every one of Trip’s perfect teeth, and excitedly exclaims, “You killed it man!”

Fitz can't help but return the smile, Trip’s enthusiasm as contagious as ever, and easily gives his friend a fist-bump when he raises his hand. Ducking to avoid having his hair tussled by Daisy, Fitz moves to the banister himself and looks down as he asks Trip, “How’s she doing?”

His friend lets out a snort, whether it's at his question or the way Daisy bodily squeezes between them, and replies, “How do you  _ think?  _ That first set was a fluke.”

Fitz immediately understands what Trip means when his eyes zero in on the object of their conversation. He watches in awe as Jemma plays, hitting the ball with such technical precision that it feels more like a game of chess than tennis, and marvels at how effortless she makes it seem. Considering how she's playing now, he's a bit surprised that Jemma lost the first set, but isn't shocked to see that it was through a tiebreaker.

Clearly it had been a motivator if the current score is anything to go by. She'd taken the second set 6-2 and is already up 4-0 now and, while comebacks are always possible, the way Olenka is playing makes Fitz pretty confident than Jemma will be moving onto the semis within the next five minutes

The ace she serves to claim the fifth game only confirms it.

“How is she this good?”

He doesn't realize he's spoken out loud until Daisy answers at his side.

“No fear. No embarrassment. No hesitation. When she makes a decision, that's it. She goes for it and doesn't look back. Everyone else hesitates.”

Fitz contemplates that and can’t help but think how Daisy’s observation is both right and oh so wrong. While Jemma is fearless on the court,  _ off  _ the court she hesitates more than anyone he’s ever met.

“Plus I'm sure having May as a coach doesn't hurt. She’s terrifying.”

Trip’s added comment is met with a snort from Daisy as she immediately nods in agreement, turning around to lean against the banister to look at them as she says, “ _ Completely…  _ Which puts me in a tough position.”

Fitz glances over at her, brows raising in surprise when he finds her already looking at him, before shifting his eyes to Trip long enough to note that the other man looks just as perplexed as he feels. “What? Why?”

“Well, I know that if I tell you where Jemma’s staying and May  _ finds out _ I told you… she’ll fire my ass and then straight up murder me...”

Fitz straightens at Jemma’s name and shifts closer to Daisy who’s doing a truly remarkable job of appearing entirely nonchalant as she raises her hands up and down like a scale weighing its options. “On the  _ other  _ hand, I  _ also  _ know that you'll probably tank unless you see Jemma before your next match... Hence the whole,  _ I’m in a difficult position _ thing.”

Fitz can see Trip trying to hide his grin in his peripheral vision but doesn’t take his eyes off his agent as he tries to determine what she’s getting at. 

_ She wouldn't have brought it up just to then not give him some sort of clue. And if she brought it up… that means there's a good chance that... _

“Daisy…”

“Yes Fitz?”

“Where’s Jemma staying?”

“16 Campden Hill Gardens, first floor apartment. Street-facing bedroom.” She pauses for a moment, letting her words sink in, before shrugging with a grin.

“Huh, guess it wasn't that tough a decision after all.”


	21. Midnight Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS CHAPTER IS OF THE M/E VARIETY.

That night he manages to slip out of the side entrance of the hotel, bypassing the few photographers willing to loiter around after supper time, and drive away without being noticed by anyone.

He has the address Daisy’d given him written childishly on the back of his hand and he easily navigates the London roads until he pulls into the posh neighborhood that Jemma and May are now staying in. Once gathering which direction the ornate street numbers are heading, he pulls over into the first vacant spot he sees and hops out of the car. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he begins to amble down the road, keeping note of the lowering numbers until he stops in front of the intimidating brownstone with the wrought-iron 16 easy to see against the white paint of the building.

He’d whistle at the structure were he not absolutely _terrified_ of being caught outside it, the entire building screaming wealth and respectability. It makes the suite at the Dorchester look like a Hooverville and Fitz can't help but feel even more anxious about the fact that he's come here to _break into it._

He spends a view minutes pacing, likely looking every bit the creepy home-invader that he is, as he contemplates whether or not he should actually go through with what will wind up being a scene straight out of _Romeo and Juliet._ Unfortunately, this of course causes him to envision Jemma peering down at him from her balcony, toothy smile providing more light than the sun rays of his imagination, and Fitz realizes that he’s utterly doomed. He _will_ see Jemma tonight and, if he doesn’t, it won’t be because he didn’t _try._

Squaring his shoulders, decision made, he moves to stand in front of the building. Staring up at the residence, Fitz internally curses as he realizes that there's only one way to sneak in without being caught. Casting a wary glance at the vine-covered trellis affixed to the building, he runs his hands along his jeans in an attempt to get as much nervous sweat off his palms as he can. He takes a few hesitant steps forward, glancing down the street to make sure that nobody mistakes him for a burglar, before tentatively gripping a handful of vines.

“This is stupid… this is so stupid. I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die before the Wimbledon semi-finals in the lamest way possible.”

With that pep-talk out of the way, he pulls himself up, pausing with bated breath as he gauges how strong the vines actually are. Being only a foot off the ground, Fitz knows that he's not yet high enough to determine the likelihood of being able to climb the trellis without falling or, more likely, being caught halfway up- too afraid to continue or drop down. He reaches up and grabs another fistful of vines and wood, using his arms to pull himself further while carefully placing his feet on the thickest parts of the living wall that he can find. Though the climb is easier than he'd expected it to be, Fitz still releases a relieved sigh when he’s finally level with the windows of Jemma and May’s apartment- eternally grateful that they'd opted not to rent one on a higher floor.

Pausing to take a breath, his arms shaking from holding up his weight and a light sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead, Fitz shuffles to the right and grabs hold of the window ledge nearest him. The widows themselves are nearly as tall as he is, the benefit of a residence this pricey, making it significantly easier to maintain his footing and keep a steady grip.

Shifting his weight, he moves along the window ledge and keeps hold of the vines while slowly pushing the window itself open. He can’t see much, the minimal light of the night making it near impossible to distinguish one thing from another in the room, but he _is_ able to make out what appears to be a bed.

_Success._

He’s _just_ throwing a foot over the railing when a stream of moonlight falls across the occupant of the bed and Fitz realizes that he’s one step away from sneaking into _May’s_ bedroom. Muffling a gasp, he promptly pushes himself back, scooting further along the ledge to get as far away from the room as possible. In his haste, he loses his footing, slipping slightly and crashing into the wall with an audible thump. He curses under his breath before going rigid at the sound of another curse coming from inside the residence followed by footsteps coming from the room he’d almost just entered. Fitz’s eyes widen at the sound and he pushes his body as far from the first window as he can, praying that the darkness of the night will obscure him enough so that May doesn’t see him when she inevitably pokes her head out to investigate the source of the loud noise.

Pausing when the footsteps are a mere foot away, Fitz sucks in a breath and shuts his eyes, silently praying to whomever or whatever he needs to that he will remain unnoticed. In the next moment, he hears a murmured, “Damn shutter windows,” before they’re closed with a resounding thud that seems to vibrate through him. He waits for a minute before sighing in relief, letting his head fall against the wall as he waits for his pounding heart to slow.

It takes another two before his body becomes unparalyzed and he immediately begins to move and to himself to the second window. Silently praying that there’s not some new addition to the Simmons party residing in _this_ room, Fitz gingerly pushes the window open and crosses his fingers. In the moonlight he spots a discarded t-shirt a few feet away from the window and grins when he realizes that it’s _his,_ or at least _was_ his. The worn cotton is all the confirmation he needs to finagle his way over the banister and move to enter the room.

Unfortunately, his second foot gets caught on its way over and, rather than make a silent and smooth entrance, he instead tumbles face-first onto the floor with a groan.

The sound, though muffled enough for him not to worry about the _other_ occupant coming to investigate, is evidently loud enough to pull Jemma from sleep. He hears a gasp as a shadow bolts upright in bed, and he clutches his nose, letting out a curse at the sting of pain lingering from his graceless entrance.

“ _Fitz_?!”

The whispered hiss rings out in the silent room and Fitz pushes himself into a sitting position as he looks in the direction of Jemma’s voice and whispers, “Hi.”

In the next moment, the room is bathed in light and Jemma is staring at him in bewilderment and _perhaps_ a bit of anger. She leans over the bed to get a better look at him and demands, “What the _hell_ are you doing here?”

Having been woken up in the middle of the night before, Fitz is all too aware of the fact that he only has a few scant minutes before Jemma’s sleep-addled mind becomes focused enough to realize what he’s up to and she pushes him back _out_ the window. He hastily picks himself off the ground, moving to sit at the edge of the bed and gingerly grasping her hand in his as he confesses, “I wanted to see you. Can’t seem to go a day without you teasing me over one thing or another. Think I may have missed ya.”

The irritation on her face, whether from being woken up or woken up by _him_ , softens and Jemma lets out a quiet sigh as she flips her hand over and weaves their fingers together. She stares at their interlocked hands for a long moment before looking back up at him and saying, “I missed you too but Fitz, _you can’t be here_.”

She glances quickly at the wall separating her room from May’s before returning her gaze to his and raising a brow. While he’d expected her to say as much, Fitz has no plans to leave without at least first _trying_ to convince Jemma to let him stay. Thinking for a moment about the best course of action, he makes a show of getting up from the bed, carefully watching Jemma’s face as he takes a single step forward and plops down on the mattress again.

“Can I be... _here?”_

The eyeroll he gets in response pulls a quiet laugh from him but the accompanying warning look promptly quiets him. He shifts closer still and mentally fistpumps when Jemma, rather than shoving him off the bed completely, actually _lets_ him. When he’s close enough that his hip is pressed against hers, Fitz simply holds his breath and waits for Jemma’s next move.

“ _Fitz."_

“People have fallen in love before, Jemma.”

A flicker of surprise crosses over her face before she expertly schools her features and gives him a wry look as she asks, “Is that what we’re doing?”

Rather than respond with an emphatic _yes,_ Fitz presses his forehead against Jemma’s and shuts his eyes at the now familiar feeling of warmth that surges through him whenever she’s near. Leaning forward, he lets his fingers gently caress her cheek before pressing a languid kiss to her lips, smiling internally when she immediately presses back.

The easy exchange, simultaneously familiar and entirely new, makes him feel immediately heady and Fitz thinks that Jemma might be more intoxicating than anything on the planet. He releases a soft sigh at the feeling of Jemma’s fingers as they glide over his cheeks, grinning as he pulls away and grasps her hands in his own.

“Jemma.”

“Yeah?”

“Your hands are freezing.”

She lets out a surprised laugh at that, opening her eyes with a smile that renders him incapable of much thought, and leans forwards to press a smattering of chaste kisses against his lips as she whispers, “Best not leak that to the press. They don't need _another_ reason to call me Ice Queen.”

Fitz grins at the comment, smile widening when Jemma’s lips gravitate to his pulse point, and breathlessly mentions, “See… I always though _May_ should be the Ice Queen. You're just the Ice _Princess.”_

She pulls away at that, wrinkling her nose and leveling him with a look while saying, “Mmmm. Really want to talk about May right now?”

The question immediately causes him to blanch as he _thinks of May right now_ and he quickly shakes his head as Jemma bites her lip to fight back a smirk.

“No. Let's stop talking altogether and…”

“Just _do_.”

The words combined with the gleam in Jemma’s eyes prompts Fitz to surge forwards once more and capture her lips in a searing kiss that immediately sends an electric current through him.

Groaning at the feeling of Jemma’s teeth nipping at his lip, Fitz makes no effort to stop his hands from roaming along her body. Considering the gasp that his wandering fingers pulls from Jemma, he’s fairly confident that she doesn’t mind his need to map out every muscle and goosebump along her flesh.

Her own fingers are just as diligent as they scratch along his stubble before coming to a halt at his collar. She yanks at his shirt and Fitz happily tugs it up and over his head before returning his lips to Jemma’s and reveling in the feeling of her fingers tracing goosebumps along his back. Her cool hands are a stark contrast to the flames that seem to be engulfing him in this moment and Fitz gasps against her mouth when he feels them dip just below the waistband of his jeans. The move causes him to buck forward, both the chill and excitement caused by her touch making him seek out the heat that is radiating from her body.

He reaches for the hem of the camisole she’s worn to bed, breaking their kiss just long enough to pull it off her and throw it to the ground, and quickly shifts his attention to her breasts when they’re free from their cotton confines. Using the knowledge he’d gleaned from their past encounters, Fitz nips and sucks in equal measure to bring  Jemma as much pleasure as he can. His tongue and teeth work in tandem and, considering the way Jemma’s hands are gripping his hair as she gasps below, Fitz is pretty confident that he’s doing something right.

He gladly keeps at it, bringing up a hand to focus on one side of her chest as his mouth busies itself on the other, and doesn’t draw his lips away until the tugging at his hair becomes a bit more _directed._ Following the pulling, Fitz allows Jemma to tug his head so that it’s in line with hers and gladly meets her when she leans up for a heated kiss. Their lips and tongues work in synchrony until the need for air becomes too great and Fitz pulls away with a gasp.

They’re only a few scant millimeters away, breaths intermingling, which means that Jemma’s lips brush against his as she whispers, “Clothes off.”

Fitz smiles against her lips, pressing a firm kiss to her mouth before hopping off the bed and divesting himself of his last remaining clothing. He pauses for a moment, too distracted by the sight of Jemma shimmying beneath the covers and dropping a pair of lace knickers on the floor to concentrate on his own disrobing. When she quirks a brow at him, pairing it with a crook of the finger, Fitz hastily continues undressing.

He makes quick work of his jeans and boxers, shucking them off before quickly turning off the bedside light, joining Jemma beneath the covers, and immediately attaching his lips to her pulse point as his hand wanders to the apex of her thighs. The breathy gasp in his ear is like a shot of adrenaline and Fitz takes it as tacit permission to sink his fingers into her slick heat and seek out the spot that always makes her…

“ _Fitz!”_

He grins against her throat before cutting off a choked moan at the feeling of Jemma taking him in one hand while shifting the other to grasp his wrist as he rubs  at the elusive spot within her. He’s not entirely sure which feeling has him short-circuiting more, the lazy stroke of her hand on him or _their_ lazy rub of fingers against her, but knows that if he doesn’t get a grip this will end far sooner than either of them would like it to.

Jemma seems to be on the same page because when the next pass of his fingers causes her to gasp and arch along the bed, she tightens her grip on his wrist and tugs his hand from her as she pulls her own away from him. She leans up and crushes her lips to his before dropping her head back to the pillow and staring at him with smoldering eyes.

“ _Now,_ Fitz.”

He’s nodding his head against her before the two-word command has fully left her mouth and shifts his body so that his hips are cradled between her thighs. Taking a moment to press soft kisses on every inch of Jemma’s face that he can, Fitz drops his mouth in surprise when her hand wraps around him once more and immediately lines him up. He bends down to attach his mouth to Jemma’s, mostly because he wants to and partially so that he can muffle their joint moans as he pushes in and is promptly overcome with pure ecstasy.

Pausing for a moment to orient himself (and run through all of the tennis statistics he can remember in an attempt to keep his body in check) Fitz rests his forehead against Jemma’s as he pulls in a shaky breath. He shuts his eyes, taking in the sensation of being entirely consumed by the woman beneath him, and doesn’t open them until he feels Jemma rake her nails across his back before gripping his bum.

The squeeze she gives him, both with her hands and where they’re joined below, kicks Fitz into motion and he follows the silent command by deliberately pulling out and just as slowly pushing in again. He’s almost certain that Jemma will chastise him for the leisurely pace of his thrusts and is pleasantly surprised when, rather than using her feminine wiles against him to speed things along, she matches his movements and runs the fingers of one hand gently over the scar along his spine.

It’s such a tender gesture that Fitz finds himself overcome with the need to somehow be connected more than they already are. He weaves his fingers through the hand that isn’t drawing circles against his back and keeps his eyes trained on hers as he continues to move.

It’s different than what they’ve experienced before.

Despite the fact that the time and place likely warrants _more_ urgency than their previous couplings, they move together slowly, as though they have all the time in the world. Jemma’s fingers are woven through his own, loosening and tightening in time with his movements, and Fitz keeps each stroke slow and measured as he presses his lips on every surface of skin that he can reach.

It’s not just sex this time.

How could it be when with each thrust he’s counting every freckle that dots Jemma’s face and trying to catalogue every swirl of amber in her eyes?

There’s an added intimacy tonight that makes something catch in Fitz’s throat as he realizes that this, what he and Jemma are doing, is the literal definition of _making love._ The realization causes his already overheated skin to warm and Fitz can’t help but replay his own words as he gazes down at Jemma and finds her already staring back at him.

_People have fallen in love before._

He suddenly feels elated and can’t stop the beaming grin from blooming across his face as he takes in the sight of Jemma beneath him. He watches as she registers his expression, the flicker of confusion morphing into her own soft smile as her eyes flit across his face.

Leaning forward, he captures Jemma’s lips in a tender kiss that she matches in gentleness. The easy press of her mouth against his makes Fitz think that she too is aware of the shift that’s occurred between them. Better yet, the way that her palm burns against his back, the motion of her thumb across his hand, and the feeling of her rocking in time with him makes Fitz think that Jemma might be _happy_ about said shift. The thought is yet another type of fuel and prompts Fitz to change the angle of his movements, wrapping his free hand around one of her legs and pressing his body more flushly against her so as to rub against every erogenous zone he can think of.

The reaction is immediate, Jemma gasping against his lips and tightening her grip around his fingers as he moves within her, and Fitz briefly wonders why anyone does drugs when a high this potent can be achieved in a _far_ more pleasurable way. Each shift of their bodies feels like a combination of adrenaline and ecstasy shot directly into his system while every kiss exchanged adds a layer of tenderness that nearly makes Fitz break apart.

Their breaths mingle, unintelligible murmurs of affection broken only by gasps and moans, and Fitz squeezes Jemma’s hand in his as he feels the telltale coil of pleasure begin to spring forth. Quickening his pace and deliberately rocking in concert with Jemma’s own frenzied movements, Fitz focuses all of his efforts on bringing her to the precipice along with him.

Pulling from memory, he shifts once again until he’s hitting the elusive spot within her that never fails to bring her quickly to the edge. Sure enough, with the next press forward, Jemma’s hands are grappling at his back as her legs tighten around him and her choked moan is echoing in his ear. Spurned by her reaction, Fitz keeps his movements steady until, with a final thrust, they’re breaking apart in unison and Fitz is muffling his groan against the sweaty skin of Jemma’s neck.

He presses a few gentle kisses along her throat as he shifts off of her and grins when she immediately turns his head to catch his lips with her own. When he pulls away, he feels an instant warmth at the sight of the lazy smile on Jemma’s face and knows that his own mirrors hers in sheer contentedness.

They spend a few moments simply staring at each other, equally satiated and happy to bask in the literal afterglow of their coupling. Fitz is certain he looks every bit the smitten, lovesick, fool that he is but makes no attempt to hide how deeply he’s fallen. And while she still hasn’t vocalized her feelings, the languorous smile on Jemma’s face makes him think that they might be in the same place after all.

He tugs her more firmly against his chest and sighs at the feeling of her immediately nuzzling her nose into the crook of his neck. He moves to press a kiss to her forehead before pulling the blanket more firmly around them and snuggling deeper into the bed. It’s not long before the puffs of air against his throat slow and he knows for certain that Jemma has drifted off. His own eyes flutter closed and Fitz falls asleep with a smile on his face, Jemma pressed against him, and not a single worry about what tomorrow will bring.


	22. Semifinals

Fitz wakes in the early hours with an arm slung over Jemma and his face pressed against the back of her neck. Shifting slightly, he grins against her bare shoulder, smile widening when the upturn of his mouth causes Jemma to unconsciously press herself more firmly against him. He lets out a sigh of contentment at once again being able to wake up with Jemma in his arms and feels a genuine giddiness flood his system.

Despite last night’s teasing, Jemma is radiating warmth where she is pressed flush against his chest and, letting his eyes drink in the sight of her bare back, Fitz finds himself thankful for the heat. The blanket they’d haphazardly thrown over themselves before collapsing asleep just hours earlier is now pooled at their waists, leaving a vast expanse of skin open to his gaze.

He burrows closer to her, breathing in her honeysuckle-sweet shampoo, and takes advantage of the stillness of the morning to simply hold her. He knows that he'll have to get up soon enough if he wants to leave before May awakens but has every intention of prolonging this for as long as he can before he has to make his getaway and scurry over to the grounds.

While he could very easily breathe in the flowery sweet shampoo and stare at Jemma’s sun-kissed skin for hours, the reminder of what day it is causes Fitz to take note of his surroundings and attempt to gauge the time based on the grey tinge of the light that is just beginning to filter through the windows. Of course, as though she can hear his thoughts, Jemma chooses this precise moment to shift on the bed until her back is on the mattress and her head is tilted towards his. Getting his first glimpse of Jemma’s face puts all thoughts of leaving out of Fitz’s mind and he instead shuffles back down the bed until his head is level with hers.

He settles in and, as he watches Jemma sleep, he hopes that he appears to be more romantic sap than utter creep. It should probably alarm him how quickly he becomes transfixed in counting freckles and holding his breath whenever Jemma's eyelids flutter, but Fitz can't find it in himself to care or worry about it.

It's not until the light begins to grow a bit more golden in color that Fitz begins to move. Slowly pulling away from Jemma to grab his phone from the pocket of his discarded jeans, Fitz has to hold back a disappointed groan when he catches sight of both the time and the half-dozen missed calls that flash before his eyes.

He’ll have to leave in the next few minutes if he wants to stop back at the hotel to change and grab his equipment before his match, but the combined warmth of the covers and Jemma makes it seem a near impossible task. He allows himself another minute of blissful comfort before gingerly pushing himself into a sitting position and slowly climbing out of bed.

He makes quick work of finding all of his discarded clothes and tugging them on before moving to the other side of the bed and leaning forward to press a soft kiss to Jemma’s forehead. Her nose wrinkles adorably at the contact, eyes remaining firmly shut, and Fitz grins at the sight. Tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear and pressing one last kiss to her bare shoulder, Fitz makes his way to the window and begins the process of clambering back down the trellis.

Weirdly, the climb is infinitely more nerve-wracking in the daylight, the likelihood of a neighbor mistaking him as a creep or a person with a camera phone catching him in the act of sneaking out of Jemma’s bedroom exponentially higher, and Fitz feels only relief when his feet finally hit the ground. He casts one last look at the first floor window he'd just exited from before shoving his hands in his pockets and making his way towards his parked car. Pulling his phone out, he shoots Trip a quick text telling him he’ll be ready to leave within the hour and hops in his car, peeling down the street with a smile.

-O-

The drive back to the Dorchester is thankfully quick and Fitz manages to sneak back into his room without crossing paths with anyone who might have even the vaguest ideas of who he is. He barely has time to rub a wet flannel over himself and change into his match-attire before Trip is knocking on his door with a grin and escorting him to their awaiting car.

The first few minutes of the car ride, though  _ technically _ silent, sound like there are a dozen marching bands present as Trip waggles his eyebrows, nudges him in the seat, and makes a few surprisingly crude gestures that were more than likely taught to him by Daisy.

Surprisingly,  _ none of it  _ bothers Fitz.

In the past he'd likely be in a heap on the floor of the car at this point, nerves all but crippling him, but today Fitz feels, for the first time in a long while,  _ confident.  _ His game, both on the court and off, has been in top form as of late, making him  _ excited  _ to use up the energy that is now surging through him. So, rather than reacting to Trip’s teasing as petulantly or nervously as he would in the past, Fitz just beams through it until his friend bursts into laughter and cuffs his head with a warm, “Good for you.”

When they pull up to the grounds, Fitz hops out of the car with a literal skip in his step and feels his heart begin to hammer in his chest as he and Trip begin walking in the direction of the players’ building. Though, this time the rapid thudding is from  _ excitement _ rather than dread. For one reason or another, Fitz feels as though nothing can touch him today and he has every intention of prolonging the feeling for as long as possible.

His buoyant mood doesn't go unnoticed by Coulson either as he makes his way into the locker room. The older man does a genuine double take at the beaming smile affixed to his face and the sight is funny enough to pull a loud laugh from Fitz. Coulson raises a brow at that, likely too used to having to be the calming presence to keep Fitz from having a pre-match panic attack, and glances at Trip in question.

“Do I need to bring someone in to do a surprise drug test?”

Trip laughs at the question, shaking his head as he responds, “Oh he's  _ definitely _ addicted to something.”

He nods towards the floor at a newspaper that had missed the trash can and Fitz catches sight of Jemma’s profile on the front page. Pathetically, the image only causes his grin (and just what it is he's grinning  _ about)  _ to become more obvious and Coulson lets out a low hum of understanding before patting Fitz on the back with a wink and, “Say no more.”

Giving the older man another toothy smile, Fitz lugs his equipment to his designated locker, looking around and noting for the first time how very quiet the room is. No longer filled with the hustle and bustle of a full roster of players, the room has only a few people (many of whom are like Trip, no longer playing but happy to show support) milling about.

He can't help but think of Ward, no doubt preening in the top-seed locker room, and feels another fire flare up within him as he pictures his next opponent.

They've not played with or against each other since the prick had dumped him as a doubles partner and stolen his former coach a few years back. The reminder causes a flicker of anger to surge through him but, more than anything, it makes the fact that he's about to face Ward in the  _ semi-finals  _ of Wimbledon that much more gratifying.

He reflects back on his time as a doubles player, a decision that had been made after what most had believed to be a career-ending injury, and remembers how synchronous he and Ward, recovering from an injury of his own, had been. They'd played a remarkable year together, winning match after match and  holding up strength, until the other man had declared that his knee was 100% healed and dropped Fitz a week before the U.S. Open, taking their coach John Garrett with him on his way back to singles.

Blindsided by the betrayal, Fitz had taken a much-needed year off where he'd spent the majority of his time bitterly watching his ex-partner climb the rankings and wondering whether or not it was time for  _ him _ to quit tennis for good. During  _ that  _ bout of self-doubt, it had been Hunter’s ex Bobbi who had served as Fitz’s quasi physical, emotional, and mental therapist.

She'd spent months pushing him through drills focused on making him discover his body’s new strengths and limitations, all the while lending a sisterly ear as he'd confessed to all of his doubts and insecurities. Giving a new meaning to the term, “tough love,” Bobbi had of course promptly informed him that he was being an idiot. 

While they'd never really discussed whether or not the physical therapy was being done with the intention of getting him circuit-ready, when she'd told him that he was as close to 100% as he was going to get, Fitz had promptly signed himself up for a tournament then-and-there.

That had been the closest period in which he'd come to a real comeback, the very timeframe during which Jemma had apparently watched him almost win at the Australian Open, and Fitz can't believe that he's now tying his shoes before the Wimbledon semis.

He's pulled from his trip down memory lane by a pat on the shoulder and looks up to see Trip standing over him with an encouraging smile.

“You ready man?”

He stands up, rolling his shoulders and grabbing his tennis bag before looking at his friend and speaking the truth.

“Know what, Trip? I actually  _ am.” _

The response causes Trip’s smile to widen, to the point where Fitz is pretty sure he can see his molars just as easily as his canines, and say, “Well alright then. Let's kick some ass.”

They walk out of the locker room and through the tunnel in silence save for the, “thank you,” Fitz throws at Coulson after the older man wishes him luck, and with each step Fitz feels his confidence grow. It's not a feeling he's accustomed to, the standard emotions at this point generally shifting between panic and nausea, but Fitz takes it in literal stride as they move closer to the stadium doors.

Once they reach the end, the cheers of the crowd now audible, Trip turns to give him one last thumbs up before moving through the side door that will take him up into the stands. Fitz, meanwhile, takes a steadying breath and squares his shoulders before pushing open the door and letting the sunlight engulf him.

He'd expected it to be loud, they're playing on Court 1 and Ward is currently battling it out with Daniels for the title of top-ranked male in tennis, but the sheer volume of noise that hits him as he walks onto the grass is overwhelming. He glances around at the crowd, standing and clapping as he moves towards his chair, and realizes that, based on the ratio of flags, quite a large portion of the crowd seem to be here for  _ him. _

In fact  _ most _ might be here for him based on the slightly less raucous cheers that greet Ward as he makes his way onto the court.

Glancing around the stadium one last time, Fitz makes his way over to the baseline to warm up, one thought pulsing through his mind in time with the claps of the crowd.

_ I'm going to win. _


	23. Wins and Losses

Though his start time had been earlier than Jemma’s, the combination of going into four sets, answering press questions, being suffocated by congratulatory hugs, and having a teary phone call with his mother, means that by the time Fitz returns to collect his things from the locker room, she's already done playing.

Trip is seated on one of the benches along a row of lockers when Fitz walks in, his gaze fixed on the television that's mounted to the wall. When he casts a glance to the screen, he sees the usual crew of commentators doing their post-match analysis. Assuming that  _ his  _ is the topic of discussion, Fitz begins changing into his fresh set of clothes- not wanting to hear any of the critiques he's certain are coming for him despite his victory.

He blocks out McEnroe’s grating voice, methodically tugging his shirt over his head as he tries to process the fact that, in a few short days, he'll be playing for the Wimbledon cup.

It's not until he sees a still shot of Jemma flash across the screen in the mirror affixed to his locker that Fitz is suddenly interested in the TV program.

Pivoting around, Fitz turns to Trip with a grin and eagerly asks, “How'd she do?”

The look on his friend's face, while perhaps impassive to a random observer, immediately causes the smile to leave Fitz’s face as he's hit with a feeling of dread. He follows Trip’s short nod to the television and feels something twist in his gut at the sight of a clearly furious Jemma walking off the tennis court and pointedly bypassing the reporters that are trying to stop her for questions. The audio that overlays the footage only confirms what he fears.

“Looks like the Brits will have to wait a bit longer for a women’s singles title.”

“Oh no…”

The television then shifts to a press conference where Akela Amador is fielding questions and the sinking feeling in his gut only intensifies as Fitz listens to the exchange.

“You played beautifully today and I certainly think this was an earned victory, but many people were commenting during the match that Simmons seemed a bit off this morning. Did you get that sense while playing?”

“You know, there are some days where everything goes right and other days where everything goes wrong and I think… certainly during the match… it did feel like, for Simmons, today was a day where everything went wrong.”

Perhaps the only thing more surprising than him playing in the Wimbledon finals is the fact that Jemma  _ isn't  _ and Fitz feels his chest tighten when the TV returns to the commentators who launch into the how’s and why’s of Jemma’s upset.

“We can talk about good days and bad days all we want but at the  _ end  _ of the day, it's pretty clear that Simmons’ biggest issue was the fact that she just couldn't seem to tap into that unshakeable focus that she's become so known for.”

“I agree John. We all know that Simmons’ greatest strength is her ability to hunker down and concentrate on reaching a single goal and today she just couldn't make it happen. She was clearly distracted and many of her fans are pointing their blame at one person for this surprising loss.”

“Yes, and unlike Simmons,  _ that  _ person is headed for the finals.”

“Too right, John. With Simmons out of the picture, all eyes are on her rumored beau, Scottish wildcard Leo Fitz, for a British victory.”

The words feel like a semi-truck to his chest and Fitz fists his hands through his hair as the reality of today’s events, or arguably the  _ repercussions  _ of last night’s, comes crashing down on him. Turning to Trip with wide eyes, Fitz shakes his head and sinks to the bench as he voices what they're both thinking.

“She’s gonna kill me.”

-O-

“I  _ told  _ you that I needed space. I  _ told  _ you that I needed to focus.  _ Four days _ , Fitz. I needed  _ four days.” _

He'd been surprised when Jemma had immediately let him into the apartment when he'd timidly knocked on it a few minutes ago, having fully expected her to want nothing to do with him, but now that he's hovering awkwardly in the kitchen as she yells at him, he understands that the  _ only _ reason he's standing here now is because Jemma’s anger isn’t of the silent-treatment variety.

He’d spent nearly twenty minutes pacing outside of the apartment, trying to work up the courage to knock and envisioning all of the possible scenarios that might be waiting behind the door. 

Texting Daisy for advice had, unsurprisingly, been a mistake, his friend detailing the iciness of the apartment when she’d visited Simmons and May earlier. Trip had unhelpfully suggested that he give Jemma time to cool off, and his mum (after being provided the  _ vaguest  _ of details and a promise to fill her in more during his upcoming visit) had simply told him to prepare for the worst, hope for the best, and pray that Jemma would let him in. The way she’d said it, all motherly and sage, had made Fitz think that it wasn’t Jemma  _ physically  _ letting him into the apartment that his mother thought he should hope for.

Though… now Fitz thinks it might have been _better_ if Jemma had slammed the door in his face. 

Because she’s absolutely  _ livid. _

“I know. Jemma I…”

“Well you sure as hell didn’t seem to know the other night! In what world does, ‘I need space,’ mean, ‘Sneak into my bedroom to sleep with me’...”

She punctuates each biting statement by forcefully slamming a knife down on a cutting board and throwing each piece of diced fruit into a nearby blender which, while preferable to her throwing them at  _ him, _ leaves very little room for Fitz to actually  _ apologize. _

Something that arguably isn’t a bad thing if Daisy’s last  _ LET HER VENT _ text is anything to go by.

With that in mind, Fitz bites his tongue and decides that his best course of action is to simply let Jemma voice all of the anger and hurt that might have accumulated over the past 24 hours. Though, her  _ next  _ statement causes him to immediately straighten with an all out  _ need  _ to explain himself.

“...and then  _ sneak out of my bedroom _ without saying goodbye.”

The unspoken accusation that he'd treated Jemma like nothing more than some booty-call, one-night-stand, has Fitz quickly moving around the kitchen island so that there's no longer a physical barrier separating them. The emotional distance is already too great without a literal blockade between them and Fitz hastily begins defending himself before Jemma can launch another verbal attack.

“I didn’t want to wake you up! I only left without saying goodbye because I had the earlier match and figured you’d want to sleep! As for  _ sneaking _ , it’s not like I could've just walked out the front door, May would’ve...”

His voice is cut off by Jemma turning on the blender, pointedly glaring at him as she ratchets up the speed to drown out anything he might still want to say. He pinches his nose with a sigh, feeling his irritation grow with each whir of the small motor, before striding over to the counter and yanking the cord from the outlet. The silence is almost more deafening than the blender and feels borderline suffocating when Fitz turns to see Jemma glaring at him, arms crossed over her chest and scowl affixed to her face.

He lets out another small sigh before gazing at her imploringly and hoping that she’ll first listen to, and then  _ understand,  _ what he’s trying to say.

“I wasn’t sneaking out. I was just trying not to get you in trouble with May.”

Jemma looks at him for a moment that simultaneously feels like an eternity and a millisecond before turning her head and snatching a glass from the cupboard. She pours the smoothie with one hand while waving dismissively in his direction with the other and acerbically saying, “It’s fine, Fitz. We were only ever  _ casual  _ remember? I’m just some girl that you picked up and...”

He lets out a legitimate guffaw at that, spluttering at Jemma’s words while trying to figure out what in the hell kind of head injury she must have sustained since he’d last seen her to cause such an extreme warping of her memory. “Wh… I picked  _ you  _ up?  _ I  _ wanted casual?” He gives her a stupefied look before shifting his accent and affecting the highest pitch he can muster. “Oh Fitz let’s workout, oh Fitz Iet’s keep things fun, oh Fitz how do you feel about fooling around before matches?”

At that, Jemma slams the blender back into its stand and whips towards him with a fiery glare and a, “That’s  _ not  _ what I sound like,” that prompts Fitz to bite back with, “The accent might be off but the dialogue is spot-on.”

Though his words come out as a borderline shout, there’s no disguising the bitterness that is laced within them. For the briefest of moments he swears he sees something other than anger flicker behind Jemma’s eyes, but in an instant it’s gone and her expression morphs into one devoid of  _ any  _ emotion

“You know what, you’re right. I said let’s be casual and I meant it. You’re just some guy, and I’m just a girl. And now this girl is going back to the States to work on her serve.”

She turns around to walk away and Fitz all but shoots forward to keep her from leaving. He gently tugs her by the elbow until she's facing him again and ducks down to meet her gaze.

“Jemma,  _ stop.  _ I’m sorry about visiting you when you asked me not to, I’m sorry about the match but…  _ please  _ don’t leave.”

She tugs her elbow from his loose grip, crossing her arms over her chest like a shield, and questions, “Why? Because you need another quickie before the finals?”

While most of the words Jemma had said to him over the past 10 minutes hadn't exactly been pleasant to hear, this question feels simultaneously like a punch to the stomach and a bucket of ice water to the head. His mouth drops to the floor and he flinches backwards in shock as he processes the suggestion that his only interest in convincing her to stay is because of his desire to sleep with her.

“Wh…  _ no.  _ Is that really what you think?! Is that really what you think of  _ me,  _ that I only want you to stay for… to…  _ sex? _ ”

Jemma quirks an eyebrow at that taking an almost predatory step forward and giving him a dry look. “So that’s not the reason you want me to stay? Not even a  _ little  _ bit?”

He's too stunned to answer and Jemma takes his silence as confirmation of her suspicions. She gives a short nod and an even shorter, very much  _ humorless _ , laugh before shrugging and stepping back as though trying to put as much emotional and physical space between them as she can without leaving the room completely.

“You're superstitious Fitz. You've been playing better tennis the past few weeks than you've played in  _ years _ and the only difference, the  _ only _ common factor in this tournament, is that all of your wins came after spending time with me.”

“Exactly!”

She seems a bit startled by his exclamation, brows raising in surprise as her eyes flutter across his face, and Fitz takes advantage of her shock by pressing on before Jemma regains faculty of her mouth.

“Jemma I've been playing this well  _ because  _ of  _ you _ ! You showed me how to get my head out of my arse and I… I already  _ told  _ you. I started playing well because I wanted to  _ impress you,  _ not because I was  _ sleeping  _ with you.”

For a moment it seems as though she  _ gets  _ it, that she's able to see the truth behind his words, but then she's shaking her head with a sigh and Fitz feels his heart sink. She shifts her gaze to a point above his shoulder as though doing her utmost to sever any connection with him before, somewhat surprisingly, returning her eyes back to him.

“I know you want me to think we’re falling in love, you might have honestly even deluded yourself into thinking it, but, Fitz, the  _ only  _ thing you’ve fallen in love with over the last few weeks is winning.”

He's not sure how he can possibly articulate how incorrect Jemma’s assumption really is, so far off from the truth that he's not sure where to even  _ begin _ proving her wrong. He’s made such a conscious effort during their time together to not scare her off with the depth of his feelings that, in a typically cruel twist of fate, he somehow seems to have not done enough to simply keep her in place. There are so many words on the top of his tongue, so many professions and confessions, that it's as though his mind is too overwhelmed to actually vocalize them.

So, rather than tell her that he in fact  _ has  _ fallen hopelessly in love with her over their short time together, rather than tell her that he'd rather never have won at all if it means losing her, Fitz instead brokenly says the one thing that's repeatedly flashing in his mind, “Jemma, that’s not _ true. _ ”

His voice cracks a bit and Fitz can't help but notice that Jemma breaks their stare when it does. He  _ also  _ notices that she squares her shoulders and clenches her jaw as though preparing for battle. Ignoring his comment, Jemma continues with her own and effectively shatters him in the process.

“I don’t blame you for it. I love winning too. More than anything and  _ certainly  _ more than anyone.”

He’s hit with an onslaught of emotion at that, sadness and anger being the two standouts, and moves forward to grab Jemma’s hand in his. “You don’t mean that. I  _ know  _ you don’t.”

She stares at their hands for a long moment before pulling hers away, squaring her shoulders, and defiantly saying, “Love means shit in tennis, Fitz. It only means you lose.”

With that she turns around, moving out of the room and slamming the door behind her with a force that makes it clear that both this conversation and this relationship are over. At a complete loss, Fitz stares helplessly at the door and wonders whether or not he should barge his way through it or take the hint and leave.

This argument feels more pivotal than any match he's played, or  _ will  _ play, and he feels in his gut that leaving will be shutting a book that he's not yet done reading. He  _ wants  _ to stay, to fight a little more and actually  _ say  _ all of the things he's been wanting to for some time, but can't help remembering that the last time he'd chosen to be selfish had ended up causing him more harm than good. The reminder that this whole debacle is the result of him ignoring Jemma’s earlier plea for space is enough to cause Fitz to take a shaky breath and pivot away from the door leading to Jemma and make his way towards the one leading to the exit.

The open plan of the apartment means that, as he passes by the living room to reach the door, he's able to easily see May analyzing Jemma’s loss on the TV. He pauses for a moment, watching as the Jemma onscreen tosses up a tennis ball in slow-motion and arcs back to knock it from the air.

“She's dropping her arm too soon.”

He’d assume that his comment has gone unnoticed, or deliberately ignored, were it not for the fact that the figure on screen suddenly begins moving even  _ slower. _ He takes the shift of speed as indication that May’s heard him, and releases a short cough before adding, “After the toss. She's pulling her elbow down a second before she should, it’s messing up her timing.”

This time he doesn't wait to see if his comment has been acknowledged, instead yanking the door open and leaving the apartment and its occupants behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's that angst we talked about... O_O


	24. Pins and Needles

“All I'm saying is… when she's not being scary practical, Jemma can be the most rash person I’ve ever met. I  _ guarantee  _ she wouldn’t have said all that stuff if she weren’t still so upset about losing. It was just too fresh, that's all.”

Fitz lets out a slow sigh into the pillow beneath him and squirms slightly atop the bed in an attempt to get more comfortable. Daisy’s been using different words to say the same thing for nearly twenty minutes, sitting on the armchair in his room and audibly working through her opinions on the debacle that is his love life. Were it not for the fact that he currently has roughly two dozen needles in his back (the acupuncture an attempt at making his limbs as functional as possible before finals), Fitz would likely have already made an attempt at escaping his agent’s blathering. 

Trip’s hums of agreement each time Daisy opens her mouth certainly aren’t helping much.  

Fitz thinks that he might actually prefer being poked and prodded with needles than hearing his friends surmise the likelihood of him and Jemma actually being done for good, particularly considering their audible speculation has been coupled with moony looks and bashful smiles whenever one catches the other staring at them. The combination of wallowing in his own relationship woes while being forced to witness the blossoming romance of Trip and Daisy is frankly nauseating and Fitz lets out a relieved sigh when he hears a gentle knock at the door. He shifts his head with a groan as he moves his gaze from the lovebirds to the door and is just about to call out when a voice from the other side begins speaking. 

“Fitz? Time to de-porcupine you.” 

Knowing that Daisy and Trip likely won’t get up from where they’re comfortably lounging on the chair and floor respectively, Fitz calls out, “Come in!” 

In the next second the door is opening and Fitz is being greeted by the sight of Doctor Campbell, one of the circuit’s on-call medical staff. 

“What’s up Doc?” 

Lincoln rolls his eyes good-naturedly as he snaps on a pair of gloves and moves towards the side of the bed. He glances over at Daisy as he plucks the first needle from Fitz’s back and says, “That one never gets old for you, does it?” 

Fitz doesn’t have to turn his head back around to know that his friend has her customary Cheshire cat grin in place as she responds with an emphatic, “ _ Nope _ .”

Lincoln lets out a small chuff of laughter, too used to Daisy’s antics by this point to be anything other than amused. He makes quick work of the needles, plucking them out efficiently and kneading Fitz’s known problem areas as he assesses the potential damage that may have arisen from the tournament. 

“Any massive pain anywhere, Fitz? Does anything hurt?” 

He lets out a groan at Lincoln’s question, mentally cataloguing all of the physical and emotional aches that he's currently dealing with and responds, “ _Everything_ hurts.” 

He can hear both Trip and Daisy snort at his melodrama and even Lincoln releases what sounds an  _ awful  _ lot like an exasperated sigh.

“Okay but does _everything hurt_ in a serious spinal injury sense or in an, ‘I refuse to do any physical exercise during the year and am now dealing with the repercussions of doing too much and pushing my body too hard in a short period of time,’ sense?” 

“That one.” 

He doesn’t have to look up to know that Lincoln is likely restraining himself from swatting him upside the head and isn’t surprised that the young doctor sounds as though his patience might be waning when he asks, “Okay and how about the first one?” 

Wincing as Lincoln prods him, Fitz answers honestly. “No serious pain in my back other than Daisy.” He ignores the affronted, “Hey!” and barrels on. “Obviously it's a bit more sore, bit tighter than usual but… other than the occasional twinge if I turn the wrong way on a shot, there haven't been any real issues.” 

“Okay, that's good. And you're keeping up with your PT stretches? It makes a difference, Fitz.” 

Groaning as he turns and scoots up on the bed, Fitz waves his hand dismissively in Lincoln’s direction. “I know, I know. I've been doin’ them. If I stopped Bobbi’d kill me and you'd probably help hide my body.” 

Lincoln snorts at that and says, “You bet I would,” in a way that convinces Fitz that the other man is being entirely serious despite the joking tone. 

From the corner, Daisy and Trip simultaneously pipe up with, “FYI, I’d probably get in on that action as well,” and, “Same,” respectively and, though the two are a bit more teasing with their words, Fitz knows for a fact (based largely on past experience) that neither Trip nor Daisy would hesitate to kick his arse if they thought he was slacking on his therapy. And, while he rolls his eyes at their pointed glares, he feels a familiar flare of warmth at the knowledge that his friends are so concerned for his well-being. 

Lincoln, meanwhile, lets out another chuckle before shifting back to his medical bag and packing up his supplies. Pulling a package of Icy/Hots from the satchel, he tosses them on the bed next to Fitz with a silent command to use the patches as he sees fit. “Just do your best not to strain yourself too much and none of us should have to worry about hiding anything.” 

Moving towards the exit, Lincoln pauses just before leaving and turns around with a look that Fitz can’t quite decipher. “And Fitz, when you get a chance? _Relax._ ” 

Waving his hand in acknowledgement, Fitz nods his head at Lincoln’s words and thanks him again for taking the afternoon to work his magic on his back. The doctor gives Trip and Daisy a friendly wave before letting himself out the door and calling, “See you at the finals,” over his shoulder as he does. 

The parting comment pulls a groan from Fitz and he promptly snatches a pillow from the bed to burrow his face in it. He feels the bed dip one one side, then the other, and slowly pulls the pillow from his face to find himself sandwiched between Trip and Daisy. Glancing between them, Fitz catches mirrored expressions of pity that somehow make him feel worse than he already did. 

The conspiratorial look that they unsubtly exchange across from him doesn’t help much either and he counts down from ten in his head until one of them decides to just come out with whatever it is they’re silently communicating. He only makes it to five when Daisy nudges his shoulder, reaching over to scoop up his hand with her own, and ducks down to catch his gaze. “You know what? I think this calls for some room service and a shitty b-movie.” 

With both his back and heart still aching, all he really wants to do is go to sleep and stay in bed until his friends drag him out to play the last match of his professional career, but the eager looks that both Trip and Daisy are shooting him cause Fitz to release a low sigh and begrudgingly nod his consent. The following whoops bring a small smile to his face and he sinks further into the mattress as Daisy dials room service and Trip snatches the remote to begin searching for a film.

He supposes that, all things considered, there are worse ways to spend an evening than trying to forget about his broken heart with two of his closest friends by his side. 

-O- 

Hours later, when the sharp twinges in his back have faded into dull aches, Fitz is overcome by the feeling of being trapped. While this _could_ have something to do with the fact that he has now somehow found himself physically sandwiched between his friends, the roiling in his chest likely has far more to do with the various anxieties that have been churning in his mind for the better part of the day.  

The sudden urge to clear his head and escape the confines of his small room has him pushing himself up and calculating the best way to make a quick exit without awaking the other occupants of the room. 

Extricating himself from the strewn limbs of his friends, Fitz maneuvers his way off of the bed with a groan that doesn’t even register to the the sleeping Trip and Daisy. They'd only lasted ten minutes into the movie before drifting off and, while the snoring wasn't exactly conducive for watching films, Fitz found that he far preferred it to the alternative: his friends’ continued attempts to cheer him up 

Casting once last glance at the dozing duo, Fitz grabs his keys and slips on his shoes before sneaking out of the room. 

Feeling more keyed-up now than he has all day, he makes his way to the lifts and jabs his thumb on the lobby button. It's late enough in the evening that nobody else joins him in the small box, and Fitz is grateful for the lack of company. Unfortunately, the quiet of the hotel isn't replicated outside it and, as Fitz steps out of the lift, he can see a healthy gaggle of reporters and photographers hovering outside of the entrance. Sighing at the sight and realizing that he won’t be leaving tonight after all, Fitz turns to move back onto the lift when he hears someone hiss his name. 

Glancing to his left, he’s greeted by the sight of Koening (which one he can't be sure) and raises a brow when the hotel employee beckons for him to follow as he turns a corner. With nothing to lose, Fitz tails the concierge until Koenig comes to a stop at a fire exit and swiftly opens the door. 

Fitz gives the man a look for his odd behavior before glancing outside and doing a double-take at the sight of his own car parked along the curb of this side-street. 

“I had our valet move your vehicle to the employee lot and then pull it up here Mr. Fitz. Thought you might want to get out for a bit and didn't think you'd want to use the front entrance with so many reporters out there.”

Fitz can feel his mouth drop at the gesture and gives Koenig a smile that he hopes conveys how appreciative he is of this new escape route. 

“Thank you…” He pauses for a moment to cast a discreet glance at the name tag on Koenig’s uniform. “...Sam. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this.” 

“Certainly sir. If there's anything else that you need, we’re happy to help.” 

While he's not sure if the, “we,” is meant to reference the Koenig brood or the hotel staff in general, Fitz nods his head gratefully and claps the man on the shoulder before making his way to his car. Glancing around for any wayward photographers, Fitz lets out a sigh of relief when he manages to hop into the coupe and drive off without being noticed or bombarded by any sort of media. 

It's a beautiful evening, the typical heat of July offset by a lovely breeze wafting from the river, and Fitz finds himself growing marginally less stressed the further he gets from the madness at the Dorchester. He cruises the streets of London, observing the visiting tourists and practiced locals out enjoying the English summer, and does his best to keep his mind focused on the sound of the wind whipping around him. 

While he makes a rather pathetic attempt at convincing himself that this is nothing more than an idle drive meant to clear his head, it's not long before Fitz finds himself driving along the street that Jemma and May are temporarily residing. Pulling up to the very brownstone that he’d effectively been kicked out of earlier, Fitz puts his car into park and shuts off the engine before turning to look up at the building. 

He can see a light behind the curtain of the window he had toppled through just the other night and cards his fingers through his hair as he realizes that Jemma is still awake. While nearly every part of him wants to climb the trellis once again and at least _attempt_ to have an actual conversation, he knows that any overture or attempt to explain himself will likely make things worse. He’d already made a hash out of things the first time around, and doesn’t think that Jemma will be any more willing to hear him out now than she was then.  

She’s already made it very clear where she stands and he doubts that going against her spoken wishes _again_ will do him any good. 

Still, looking across the street and remembering the tender expression on her face as he'd brought up falling in love, Fitz can't help but feel that what they had, as fleeting as they'd had it, isn't something that should be given up on. 

It's hard to process the abrupt shift from their night spent together to the explosiveness of their last interaction, and Fitz tries to figure out what was said in the heat of the moment versus what Jemma truly meant and believed. He hopes that most of her words stemmed from the hurt and anger of her loss (and the role she believes he played in it) because if they _did_ then he might just have a chance at rectifying the situation.  

Not that she'll ever give him one. 

She'd made it clear that she has no intention of sticking around and Daisy had already let it slip that Jemma and May would be flying out the day after tomorrow, just as his last match as a professional tennis player would be starting. 

Still, perhaps with enough time and space, Jemma will be ready to hear him out. 

After another five minutes of sitting in his parked car and staring at Jemma’s bedroom like every bit the stereotypical creeper, the light that he’d been so focused on turns off abruptly. It feels a bit like the physical representation of his relationship with Jemma, the flame being snuffed out without warning, and Fitz lets his head fall with a thud against the steering wheel. 

Of course, the bloody _horn_ goes off and he shoots up with a panicked yelp at the sound. The beat of noise sets off a dog a few buildings down and Fitz groans as the first few barks seem to catch the attention of every other household pet in the vicinity. Not a second after the cacophony begins, the dark street is lit up as sporadic rooms are swathed in light and a Fitz winces when a man in an apartment above him shouts out an open window, “People are trying to sleep you tosser!” 

Though utterly ironic that a man would scream at the top of his lungs about common, nighttime, courtesy Fitz is too anxious by the attention drawn to him to shout back a retort. 

Glancing at Jemma’s apartment one last time (both to ensure that _she_ hasn't taken note of the ruckus, as well as to get a final memory), Fitz releases a sigh before putting his car in drive and doing everything he can not to look in the rearview mirror as he pulls away. 

He cruises his way through London once again, the city now mostly quiet, and lets his heavy sigh be drowned out by the wind. Not interested returning to the hotel and having Trip and Daisy try to cheer him up, Fitz makes a sharp turn towards the highway as he realizes that there’s really only one place he needs to be, and one person he needs to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this sucker is ALMOST done, I was a bit of a dunce and finished end chapters before middles so I still have to knock out two halves of two separate chaps. And it's the FINALS so trying to balance tennis with plot is taking FOREVER. So bear with me! I may need to take another week hiatus depending on how much I manage to write over this long weekend but am hoping that I can buckle down and finish this dang thing in the next few days and thus not need to take any sort of posting break. Any who, just wanted to give you all a heads up!


	25. Home Is Where...

When he pulls up to his mother’s cottage, the porch light is on and Fitz can't help but smile at the literal beacon calling him home. Parking his car in the drive, Fitz sits and stares at the picturesque house for a few minutes before clambering out and making his way towards the front door.  

Walking into the cottage, he's surprised to find it mostly dark. His mother, though certainly more of a morning person than a night owl, usually goes to bed fairly late, which makes the fact that she's _not_ currently curled up in her favorite chair with a cuppa fairly odd. Glancing around the darkened living room, Fitz makes his way through the hallways and into the kitchen to confirm that his mother is nowhere in the ground floor. When he still doesn't find her, Fitz follows the lone source of light to the stairwell and begins clambering his way to the second floor. 

Once at the landing, he turns in the direction of his mother’s room before a familiar noise at the end of the hallway catches his attention and brings him to a halt. 

The grunts and moans, though muffled by the bedroom door, are still entirely audible and Fitz smacks his head at his friend’s inability to watch more appropriate films in his mother’s presence. Striding down the hallway, Fitz grabs the doorknob of the guest bedroom and gives it a yank as he says, “For Christ sake Hunter, I hope you know how weird it is that you watch this stuff with my mum aro… what the hell?!” 

Slapping his hands over his eyes before he sees more of Hunter’s pasty arse, Fitz pivots around and silently thanks whichever deity had spared him from a frontal view of his best mate. Gagging at the thought he barely has time to register the surprised, and oddly excited voice that calls out, “Fitz!” before Hunter is remarking, “Jeez mate, don't you knock?” 

He turns around at that, hands still firmly pressed against his face, and hopes that enough of his mouth is uncovered that the occupants of the bed can see it’s gaping at the comment. 

“It's my house!” 

The exclamation pulls an immediate snort of laughter from Hunter that has Fitz shooting him a glare despite the fact that it's entirely hidden by his hands. 

“Please, it’s your _mum’s_ house. And you can quit acting like a prude and take your hands off your face, we’re decent.” 

Knowing full well that his friend’s definition of decent is drastically different than his own, Fitz tilts his head towards the bed’s other occupant and questions, “Are you _actually_ decent?”  

It's silent for a moment save for a bit of rustling before the woman calls out, “Ish.”

While he can't actually _see_ her, he knows that the comment has been paired with a shrug and Fitz can't help but grin at the familiarity of the gesture. Slowly pulling his hands from his face and cracking his eyes open, Fitz lets out a small sigh of relief at the sight of a now boxer-clad Hunter and Bobbi covered by the bed-sheet. Shivering at the reminder of what he'd walked in on, Fitz blanches in Bobbi’s direction while gesturing towards Hunter. 

“I can never unsee this.” 

“Why would you _want_ to? We’re fit!”  

Hunter holds out his hand for a high-five and promptly has it swatted away by Bobbi. Though she's glaring at her seemingly on-again _,_ ex-husband, there's enough mirth in her expression to make it clear to Fitz that the warning look is more feigned than anything- as though she agrees with Hunter but has no intention of _agreeing with Hunter._  

A pretty common aspect of their relationship that's likely been the source of a handful of their break-ups over the years. Though, Hunter’s gloating when he _is_ proven right likely led to a fair share of separations as well. 

After a moment, Bobbi’s smile softens and she turns her gaze on him with a pleased, “Hi, Fitz _._  

He can't stop his own grin from blooming at Bobbi’s look of fondness and sends out another silent thank you that his friends have reconciled. While he still makes a point to see and speak with each of them during their frequent breaks, he far prefers being able to chat with  _ both  _ Bobbi and Hunter when they're together. Each has been instrumental to him, both personally and professionally, and he’s never enjoyed the feeling of walking on eggshells to avoid mentioning one while spending time with the other. The two, though wholly combative and more argumentative than any people he's met in his life, are magnets that will inevitably find their way back to each other. Luckily the magnetic fields seemed to draw them back right when he needs them both- the sage wisdom of Bobbi combined with Hunter’s willingness to drop most things for a pint might actually manage to make him feel slightly less pummeled.

“It's good to see you both. I'd like to have seen a bit _less_ but…” 

Bobbi lets out a loud laugh at that before tugging the sheet more firmly around her torso and rising from the bed. “On _that_ note, I think I'll go shower.”  

The statement immediately has Hunter opening his mouth but Bobbi is vehemently shaking her head before he can get a word out. “ _Alone.”_  

She moves towards the door and Fitz shifts out of the way to let her pass. Reaching out to ruffle his hair, Bobbi gives him another affectionate smile and warmly says, “I've missed you Fitz.”

Ducking to avoid any potential noogies, Fits swats his friend’s hand away with a laugh and an eye roll that is all in good fun. “You too Bobbi. I'd hug you and all but…”  

He lets his words trail off as he gestures towards her state of undress and nods towards Hunter with a grimace. The gesture pulls another laugh from Bobbi and she nods her head in understanding. “Shower first, hug later, and _chat_ after that.”  

She gives him a look that makes it clear she has a pretty good idea what caused this impromptu trip home, raising a brow and staring him down with an expression scary similar to his mother’s. Fitz lets out a hum, pulling his eyes towards his shoes and nodding his head in acknowledgment. She squeezes his arm as she moves past him into the hallway, calling out over her shoulder as she works her way towards the bathroom. “Your mom’s at her book club by the way, should be back in a bit.” 

Smacking his head for his forgetfulness, Fitz yells, “Thanks Bobbi,” as she disappears around the corner before making his way further into the room. He’s normally quite good at remembering his mother’s bi-weekly book club, typically calling the following day to ask what she and her cohort had read that fortnight, and can’t help but wonder how muddled his head is that he could forget something that has been firmly branded in his mum’s schedule for nearly a decade. 

Lost in thought, Fitz forgets that he’s not the only one in the room until a pillow is colliding with his face. Snatching it from the air before it hits the ground, he shoots his friend a startled glare. “What the…” 

Hunter flops on the bed, stretching out his feet and giving him an expectant look as he waves his hand dismissively. “I asked what you're doing here mate.” 

Though he's actually _heard_ the question this time around, Fitz still doesn't answer immediately. The _true_ answer is that he's been feeling very much the boy in need of his mother but, while such a confession is one that Hunter would understand completely, Fitz still finds himself wanting to hold off delving into his relationship woes just yet.  So, instead of confessing to the _main_ reason he's come home, Fitz reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the passes to the Wimbledon finals that he'd tucked away. Tossing them to his friend, Fitz moves to collapse in the armchair situated in the far corner of the room. 

“Lucky I brought an extra, Bobbi’d probably be a bit miffed if she couldn't tag along.” 

Hunter looks at the lanyards before letting out a low whistle and shaking his head as he holds them up and stares at Fitz with a look. Brows furrowing in confusion, Fitz looks at Hunter and waits for his friend to say whatever it is he’s thinking. When Hunter does nothing but stare at him expectantly, Fitz finally breaks and asks, “ _What_?”  

Letting the passes drop to the bed, Hunter gives a small shrug before crossing his arms over his chest with a raised brow. “Nothing, just… she must have done a real number on you if you're willing to actually let us come see you play.” 

Fitz feels his mouth drop slightly in surprise at how easily Hunter has read the situation and he sinks further into the chair as though the extra few inches of space will serve as protection from his friend’s newfound inquisitiveness. 

“I don't know what you mea...” 

“Mate, contrary to what you and my she-devil ex-wife believe, I _do read._ Though gotta say I'm a bit miffed that I had to hear about you and Jemma Simmons from the Mirror instead of you but…” 

Fitz’s groan cuts off the rest of Hunter’s comment and he lets his head fall back atop the cushion as his fingers move to rub at the building pressure behind his eyes. While he knows that his friend is _mostly_ joking, Fitz knows that any explanation of _why_ he’d kept his relationship with Jemma under wraps will lead to conversations that he’s not quite ready to have. Still, the expectant look on Hunter’s face when Fitz returns his gaze to him makes it clear that he won’t be able to evade the questions for long. 

Letting out a sigh, Fitz cards his fingers through his hair and starts talking. “I wanted to tell you. But everything got so crazy and it was already so new I didn’t… I didn’t even have a chance to before it was over.” 

“Is it?” 

He shifts his gaze to Hunter who’s now leaning forward on the bed and staring at him speculatively. Furrowing his brows in confusion, Fitz tiredly rubs at his neck as he asks, “Is it what?” 

“Over.” 

Pausing at Hunter’s question, Fitz reflects back on the past few days and lets out another tired sigh as he nods his head. “Yeah I… I’m pretty sure it is. She was _furious_ with me.” 

At that, Hunter lets out an amused snort and waves his hand dismissively at his words. “Take it from me mate, a mid-fight break-up isn’t permanent until someone _confirms_ it is.” 

He knows that his friend knows better than most the accuracy of that statement, but _Fitz_ knows that the relationship between Bobbi and Hunter is wholly unique to them as individuals as well as a couple. Their naturally combative personalities mean that their fights, and subsequent break-ups, are all par for the course in the long run. Not to mention, they’ve been together, on and off, for nearly a decade, meaning their spats are infinitely less destructive than those had by a _pseudo_ , sort-of, not _quite_ , couple. 

Rubbing his hands over his face, Fitz shakes his head and says, “I dunno Hunter. It’s different with you and Bobbi. Jemma and I… we were _just_ getting started. I don’t think…” 

The rest of his sentence is cut off by a muffled shout coming from down stairs, “Is that Leo’s car I see out front?” 

Fitz’s gaze shifts to the door at the sound of his mother’s voice and he springs up from the chair, making a quick exit from the room before bounding down the stairs. Rounding the corner he nearly barrels into her in his enthusiasm to see her and has to throw out a hand to slow himself down. Catching him around the waist, his mum lets out a loud laugh before tugging him into a hug that he’s sorely needed. 

Burrowing into the crook of her neck, Fitz lets out a long sigh that doesn’t go unnoticed by his mum. Pulling back, she grabs his face in her hands and stares at him for a long moment, likely seeing every thought and problem written clearly on his face, before giving him a sympathetic look, “Come on love, let’s have some tea and choccy biscuits. You can tell me all about it.”

 

-O-

 

Three cups of tea, nine biscuits, two new additions to the table, and one long-winded story later, Fitz finds himself trying to suss out the varying pieces of advice that have been, and are still  _ being,  _ thrown in his direction

“Just _call_ her mate. And if she won’t pick up, just leave her a million voice messages until she does!” 

Bobbi swats Hunter upside the head and gives him a stern look before turning back to Fitz and vehemently saying, “Do _not_ do that.” 

Even his mum is shaking her head at that one and Fitz lets his head fall to the table with a thud, feeling somehow more confused about his situation than before. He’d thought some outside guidance might help sort out his head before the finals but feels infinitely more overwhelmed now that the advice is pouring in. 

“You said it yourself Fitz, the reason Jemma’s upset, or is _saying_ she’s upset, is because you did the one thing she asked you _not_ to do.”  

Letting out another groan, Fitz rubs at his temples as he nods his head at Bobbi’s words. “Ugh, I _know._ I know it’s my fault that everything’s mucked up but…” 

He’s cut off before he can finish and glances down at the feeling of Bobbi’s hand laying atop his own. “That’s not what I’m saying, Fitz. Jemma didn’t lose because of you, we know that, you know that, and she probably knows it as well. But you going against her wishes _again_ is frankly a terrible idea considering what happened last time.” 

His mother wraps an arm around him, tugging him into her side and resting her head against his shoulder as she hums in agreement. “Barbara’s right son. From what you’ve told me, Jemma’s quite the rational woman but it _also_ seems that she’s infinitely more emotional than you might have originally given her credit for. Give her some time, let her work out her own feelings first. This is _new_ to her Fitz. All she needs is time.” 

He lets out another sigh at that, staring gloomily at his thumbs where they’re fiddling atop the table. “Yeah I just… I think with enough time she’ll realize how much better she can do than me. I don’t want her to… I dunno.” 

His voiced insecurities pull three scoffs from the others at the table and Fitz glances up to see mirrored expressions of mild outrage on their faces. He expects Bobbi or his mother to speak up in his defense, to immediately chastise him for thinking that he’s undeserving of the single most extraordinary woman in the world, and finds himself utterly shocked when it’s actually _Hunter_ who speaks first.  

“Fitz, no girl whisks some random shag to a beachside house in a town that is more significant to her than anywhere else on the planet. She cares about you mate, give her a little time to cool down and then do what you did the first time: be the utterly charming bastard that you are and whisk her off her feet. Get married, have a bunch of English-Scottish hybrid babies, and live your life to the fullest. Don’t settle for anything other than what you want.”

Both his mother and Bobbi are looking at Hunter in surprise, their mouths slightly agape as the other man reaches for another biscuit. Turning to him slowly, Bobbi lets out a small chuff of laughter as she nods her head and points at her ex-husband. 

“ _ That  _ I agree with.”

 

-O-

 

The next morning, Fitz awakens to sunlight streaming in through his window and he stretches atop the bed with groan. The grey tint to the room makes it clear that it’s just barely dawn, but he can hear puttering downstairs and knows that his mum has likely already been up for hours. Knowing full well that the same cannot be said for Hunter and Bobbi, Fitz tugs on a jumper before padding down the stairs for some time alone with his mother. 

When he rounds the corner into the kitchen, Fitz pauses in the doorway and smiles at the sight of his mum cooking eggs and humming merrily as she does. He watches her for a few moments before the mouth-watering smells of the kitchen become too much to ignore. 

“Enough for two?” 

Glancing up at his question, his mother gives him a fond smile before shaking her head and saying, “With your stomach? I’d need to make enough for a dozen at least.” 

Fitz laughs at that, nodding his head in acquiescence and briefly thinking that Jemma would find this interaction hilarious. The reminder causes his smile to fade and he moves further into the room before his mum catches on to his change in mood. Giving her a quick kiss to the cheek, he ambles over to the counter and begins chopping the various ingredients that she’s set aside for breakfast. 

They work in a comfortable silence, Fitz diligently slicing and dicing as his mother adds to the pan and whips them up some omelettes. When their food is done, Fitz carries their plates to the small breakfast nook by the window and gratefully accepts the cup of tea that his mother places before him. Digging into their meals, Fitz makes it halfway through his eggs before reaching into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulling out the finals pass that he’d brought for his mum. 

“Here, you should probably take this before Hunter tries to sell it on eBay.” 

He pushes the pass towards her along the table and smiles when her eyes catch sight of it. She plucks up the pass, eyes eagerly roving over the Wimbledon logo, but only a few seconds later her excited expression dims and she pushes the lanyard back in his direction. 

“Oh Leo, I can’t… I can’t accept this. I’m bad luck.” 

Fitz scoffs, rolling his eyes at that before plucking up the lanyard and reaching forward to drape it over his mother’s neck. “That’s rubbish mum, and you’ve let me get away with that excuse way longer than you should’ve.” 

Giving her a smile as he pulls away, Fitz feels a warmth flood through him as his mother’s hopeful excitement seems to return. He can tell that she’s trying to keep it at bay, biting her lip in an attempt to contain her smile and giving him a questioning look as she asks, “Are you sure sweetheart?” 

Nodding his head decisively, Fitz pats her hand with a grin before assuring her, “Tomorrow I’m playing the last match of my professional career and it’s the Wimbledon  _ finals.  _ I want my mum cheering me on where I can see her.”

His mother looks at him for a few long moments as if trying to determine how serious he’s being before breaking out into a beaming grin and launching herself across the table to pull him into a back-breaking hug. 

“The Wimbledon _finals_ Leo! We’re going to the Wimbledon _finals._ ” 

When she pulls away, he can’t help but smile at the sheer delight on his mum’s face. Shaking his head at her words, he stares at her in astonishment as he says, “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” 

She shakes her head immediately, smiling at him with such tenderness as she replies, “Not in the least.” 

Hours later they’re joined by a bleary-eyed Bobbi and Hunter who pad into the kitchen and collapse at the table with mumbles that Fitz  _ thinks  _ are meant to be morning greetings. They all eat and chat amicably before lazing around for the day, ambling through his mother’s garden and lounging in the yard until late in the afternoon when Fitz and his mum hop into his car, Hunter and Bobbi following closely behind, and make their way towards London for the last match of the tournament, and the last match of his career.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy! Hence forth I'm going to have to scale back to one update a week because we're nearing the finish line and I STILL HAVE THIS ONE DUMB CHAPTER TO WRITE THAT IS KILLING ME so it's proving to be a bit challenging to write/edit/post simultaneously. Hopefully you all will enjoy the last act though!


	26. So It Begins

The next morning he wakes to the sound of an incessant knocking at his door and barely has time to blearily glance at his bedside clock before Daisy is bounding into the room with his mother in tow. 

“Up and at ‘em Fitzy! Big day today.”

Letting out a groan, Fitz reaches for a pillow and tosses it in his friend’s general direction while commenting, “It's too damn early to see you Daisy.” 

He turns around on the bed to avoid her, shutting his eyes tightly and throwing an arm over his head to make it clear that he’s not joking. Despite the fact that his bicep is effectively covering his ear, Fitz can hear Daisy scoff at his actions.  “That's mildly offensive but I'll let it slide since I know you get extra grumpy when you're nervous. Plus your mom is here so I'm trying to behave for her sake.”

Though his eyes are still shut, he can perfectly visualize the restrained smile that is likely on his friend’s face and it brings a smug one to his. Of course, his triumph doesn’t last long because in the next moment, the very woman prompting Daisy’s good behavior speaks up. 

“Not necessary dear, if my own son won't be civil this morning, I see no need for you to be.” 

He barely has time to register the permission behind his mother’s words before Daisy is exclaiming, “Perfect!” and all but body-slamming him as she leaps atop the bed- pinching and tickling him mercilessly. 

“Dais… stop… I get… mum! OKAY! I’m up, I'm _up_.”  

He lets out a bellow as he pushes himself into a sitting position and swats Daisy’s hands away when they move towards him once again. When he grabs a wrist from the air, she gives him a stern look and says, “You're not up until you _get_ up.” 

Matching her glare with one of his own, Fitz bites out, “I _can't_ get up until _you_ get up.” 

He shoves at her legs and Daisy pushes herself off the bed with a laugh before ruffling his hair and moving to sit on the arm of the chair his mother is comfortably seated in. Swinging his legs over the bed, Fitz glowers at the two women and opens his mouth to give a stern lecture about forcibly waking someone up on the most stressful day of their life when he's interrupted by another round of incessant knocking. 

Within a second of Daisy calling out, “It's open!” Hunter, Bobbi, and Trip are barreling their way through the door like a stampede and making themselves comfortable in the cramped room. 

“Oh for crying out… Can I just get one _damn_ minute alone?” 

“Leopold Fitz.” 

At his mother’s stern tone, Fitz snaps his mouth shut and looks guiltily in her direction. Ducking his head at her expression, he picks at an invisible piece of lint on his bedspread and mumbles, “I didn't mean _you._ ” 

He sees her stand in his peripheral vision, hands moving to rest at her hips in a pose that his shenanigans during his youth made him all too familiar with. 

“I don't care how jittery you're feeling, you will not speak to your friends in that tone.” 

Nodding his head at the command, Fitz mutters, “Yes mum,” and waits until she turns around before flipping off his snickering friends. They’re doing a relatively admirable job at containing their laughter but each of them looks as though they’ve never witnessed something funnier than Fitz being lectured by his mum. The petulant glare he shoots in their direction almost sets them off but the group makes sure to keep their features schooled as his mum begins speaking again. 

“Now, it seems as though my son would like a minute or two to get ready for the day. What's say we all head down for breakfast and Fitz can join us when he’s ready.” 

The chorus of affirmative answers, coupled with the sight of his friends getting up and moving towards the door, sends a flash of relief through him. Both his mother and Daisy were correct in commenting that he’s more crabby than usual when anxious, and he knows that the general positivity and excitement that is radiating off of his friends will likely have him snapping at all of them within minutes. He doesn’t want his innate pessimism to make him say or do something he’ll regret later, and is grateful that his mother has bought him a few minutes to get his head sorted enough that he won’t have to worry about pushing away the few people in the world that he quite likes having in his life. 

The reminder that this group of people has stuck with him through every high and low of the past few years has him turning around on the bed and calling out to them as they begin filing out the door. “Guys? I really _am_ happy you’re all here.”  

He glances from one to the next, shooting each a small smile that is immediately reciprocated by each, along with various, “Awws,” and, “Fitzy’s,” that he rolls his eyes at. Waving them off, he waits until their voices fade before shifting to face his mother, still standing in the room and looking at him with a fondness that manages to calm his head. Pushing himself off the bed, he moves to give her a hug, squeezing her tightly and smiling when she wraps her arms around him. When he steps back, he panics slightly when he sees tears in her eyes.  

“Mum, what’s wrong?!” 

He moves to snatch the box of tissues sitting on the bedside table, hastily pulling one out and handing it to her while she beams at him as though tears aren’t streaming down her face. She lets out a short laugh at his worry, taking the proffered tissue and smiling all the while. 

“Oh _nothing_ is wrong, darling. Not one thing.” She dabs the tissue at her eyes before tucking it in her pocket and moving her hands to cradle his face between them. “I love you so very much Leo, and I hope you know that, win or lose, I am _so_ proud of the man you’ve become.” 

At her words, Fitz feels his own eyes begin to water and he blinks rapidly in an attempt to keep the tears at bay. His throat tightens and he feels as though one of the numerous weights that he’s been carrying has been lifted. His mother’s endless support and unwavering enthusiasm has always stunned him but hearing her now and seeing the sincerity in her eyes fills him with more gratitude than he can bear. Launching forward, he pulls her into another crushing hug that he hopes conveys how eternally grateful he is for her and everything she’s done. 

“Love you mum.” 

“And I love you my sweet boy. Don’t get too far into your head today, alright? Do your best and play your heart out. Nothing else matters.” 

He gives her a short nod before leaning down to kiss her on the cheek, smiling when she pinches his in return and ruffles his hair affectionately. Taking a step back, she pats her stomach with a smile and gives him a wink before saying, “Now, I’m off to have some brekkie.” 

Fitz gives her a grin, nodding his head again and walking her to the door. Leaning against the frame as she turns to give him another fond look, Fitz scratches his head and bashfully gestures towards his pajamas. “I’ll still be a mo’.” His mother lets out an amused snort at that, ruffling his hair once more before giving him a wink and saying, “I’ll make a doggy bag then. Knowing you, we’ll be pulling away in the car before you make it down.” 

Fitz lets out a small laugh at that, shrugging in agreement and watching with a smile as his mother moves down the hallway, turning around only to exclaim, “The Wimbledon _finals,_ Leo!”  

Shutting the door with a smile, Fitz takes in the sight of the empty hotel room and feels the grin fade as his mind catches up with him. Moving towards the ensuite bathroom, he turns on the water before shucking off his clothes and stepping in, hissing at the chill before relaxing beneath the spray. 

He showers in a daze, washing his hair three times before realizing as much and standing under the stream of water until it begins to run cold. Continuing his morning routine in a fog, Fitz brushes his teeth and shaves his face before moving back into the bedroom and pulling on the fresh set of tennis whites that Daisy had ordered specifically for this match. 

Though his stomach is now growling, Fitz feels entirely too nervous to even _contemplate_ making his way downstairs for breakfast. Picking up his phone, he sends a quick text to the group, letting them know that he’ll be skipping the hotel breakfast in favor of a quick snack closer to the match, before running through the list of contacts and letting his thumb hover over JEMMA SIMMONS. He stares at the name for a long moment before glancing over at the clock on the nightstand and wondering whether or not Jemma’s already left for the airport. Considering her _and_ May’s notoriety for preparation, he wouldn’t be surprised if the two are through security- minds already out of England and focused on the next tournament.  

He stares at the number for another minute, the two parts of himself warring over whether or not he should just tap his thumb against the screen, before putting his phone to sleep and tossing it onto the bed with a sigh. He falls back in the chair, pinching his nose as all of the negative thoughts and insecurities dulled by the presence of his friends flood through him. 

Today is inarguably the biggest of his life and he’s not sure he’s ready for what’s ahead. No one is more surprised than he that he’s made it to the finals of the biggest sporting event in Britain and, now that the run is coming to an end, the reality of what comes next is beginning to sink in. The hopes and wants that he’d begun to have over the past few weeks have been replaced with the reminder that he’s already lost the girl of his dreams, is _about_ to lose Wimbledon, and will no doubt wind up spending the rest of his days as a tennis instructor for rich geriatrics. 

Letting out another another sigh, Fitz does his utmost to follow his mother’s instructions and not allow himself to travel too far into his own mind, but the fact that this single day is serving as the culmination of both the professional and personal aspects of his life is making it difficult to do anything other than panic. For the most part, the past month has been lived day-to-day, each one potentially leading to another, but today is _the_ day, the last one, and Fitz has no idea what comes next for him. 

In the long run, he knows that his mother was right.  

Win or lose, he’s the same Fitz he’s always been. Still, the building pressure seems to be crushing him from every angle as he sits alone in this hotel room and prepares himself for the last match of his career. As his mind guides him through the possible scenarios of the day, his phone dings incessantly atop the bed and he snatches it up to skim through the various sad-faced emojis sent in the group chat. 

Ignoring them in favor of wallowing, he turns on the telly to the first station that he sees cartoons on and mindlessly watches the program in an attempt to tune out both his mind as well as his dinging mobile. His eyes sporadically glance over to the clock, watching the minutes tick by and calculating how long he can laze in bed until Daisy barrels in again to yank him to the grounds.

When he finally receives a text comprised of nothing but exclamation points, Fitz heaves himself out of the chair with a groan and grabs everything he’ll need for the day. Slinging his tennis bag over his shoulder and snatching his phone from the bed, he moves to the door and ambles his way down the hallway. There’s nobody else in sight as he makes his way to the lift, making his thudding heart the only sound he hears as he nervously fidgets with his bag strap and steps into the small box. 

Pulling in a deep breath, he jabs the lobby button and shuts his eyes as each ding serves as a literal countdown to the beginning of the end. At this point, he just wants the day to be over and done with, too emotionally and physically exhausted to have any interest in prolonging it.  

Stepping out of the lift, Fitz draws up short when he takes in the sight before him.  

The entire staff, or at the very least the majority of it, are standing in two parallel lines on either side of the hotel lobby with beaming smiles on their faces and a restless energy. When they catch sight of him, the group breaks into applause and begins cheering for him as, stunned, he moves forward towards the exit. He shakes hands in shock, moved forward by an onslaught of pats on the back and dazedly replies, “Thank you,” to all of the well-wishers who had gathered to see him off. He catches sight of the three Koenigs, standing proudly before the concierge desk, clapping along and cheering him on, and he gives them a fond wave. 

At the end of the row, his family and friends are waiting with matching knowing smiles on their faces, each of them silently saying, “ _See,”_ at the show of support. His mother is absolutely _beaming_ as he makes his way towards them and Fitz finds that he’s about one, “Good luck,” away from turning into a blubbering mess. While he’s gotten a fair amount of support over the years, it’s been quite some time since he’s received a display even _close_ to this one and he suddenly realizes what it is that Daisy and Jemma had been trying to clue him in on over the past few weeks: People are rooting for him. 

He allows himself to be pulled into the arms of his friends and guided out of the hotel, waving over his shoulder at the people he’s spent the past few weeks interacting with. He almost stops again at the cheering fans _outside_ the hotel, decked out in blue and white and clapping enthusiastically as his party makes it towards their awaiting car. Blinking in surprise at the display, Fitz waves dazedly at the crowd. 

As they continue towards the car, Daisy leans towards him and whispers conspiratorially. “FYI, Will left twenty minutes ago and the crowd was a quarter of the size. And _nobody_ at the hotel said goodbye. Don’t go thinking they put on a display like that for everyone.” 

She nudges him as she links her arm through his and he can’t help but grin at the sight of her waggling her eyebrows in happiness. 

The group clambers into the SUV sent to take them to the grounds and, as the car pulls away, Fitz lets his friends’ excited chatter wash over him like white noise, shutting his eyes and preparing himself for the day. 

-O- 

“You’re _sure_ you want to do this?”  

Daisy is pacing in front of him, biting her thumbnail in the nervous tick he’s teased her about for years, and Fitz can’t help but wonder how _this_ is what’s got his agent so worked up. Despite what the sweatiness of his palms may indicate, Fitz _is_ sure that he wants to do this and quickly runs his hands along his shorts as he nods his head at Daisy’s question. “Yeah, I’m sure. I’m… I’m sure.” 

He rolls his shoulders as if going into battle and doesn’t miss the dubious look Daisy shoots in his direction. She’s already made her doubts over this interview quite clear, never attempting to talk him out of it but certainly not holding back listing all of the reasons why it might not be the best of ideas. Still, she seems to understand better than anyone why he feels the need to do this, and nods her head in determination. 

“Okay, let’s get you mic’d up then.” 

She motions for a man waiting in the wings to come set him up with a mic and gives him an encouraging squeeze to the shoulder when he begins to nervously fidget as Maria Hill finishes her current segment. He wipes his palms on his shorts once again as he’s led to the side of the stage set-up in the skybox overlooking the Wimbledon grounds. 

“Next up, a conversation with Leo Fitz. Stay tuned.” 

The commercial break music sounds and there’s a rapid flurry of movement as Fitz is guided to the seat beside Hill, his heart hammering in his chest as he takes steadying breaths. Maria gives him a warm enough smile that he does his best to reciprocate, though, he’s not sure how convincing he is. He catches Daisy giving him an encouraging thumbs up from where she’s still situated in the corner and he shoots her an appreciative nod as the producer counts down and points a finger in his direction. 

Straightening at the cue, Fitz turns to focus on Hill as she launches into the start of the interview. “Joining me now is Leo Fitz, the wild card contender that wound up in the Wimbledon finals. Now, Fitz, you’re not usually one to join us in the press box. You’ve already confirmed that this will be your last professional tennis match, is this sudden desire to chat coming from a bit of nostalgia over your last year in the circuit?” 

He’s shaking his head before the question has even left her mouth and feels his hands begin to shake where they’re hidden beneath the table as he summons the courage to discuss the _actual_ reason he’d been willing to do this pre-match interview. 

“No, not really. Well umm… you see… I… I didn’t really come to chat about any of that stuff. Actually I wanted to stop by because, well I’ve read and heard quite a few things over the past day or so about myself and Jemma Simmons and I just… wanted to clear a few things up I suppose. If that’s… if that’s okay.” 

Maria’s brows raise in surprise, no doubt shocked that someone known for being as much of a recluse as he is seems to be _willing_ to discuss his personal life in a televised interview, and she turns towards him in interest. “I see…” 

Fidgeting in the chair, Fitz rubs at his ear in an attempt to avoid Hill’s questioning stare and powers through. “Yeah well… quite a lot of it is rubbish but there was one article in particular, I’m not sure if you saw this morning’s Mirror but... that’s about as far from the truth as you can get.” 

Glancing up towards the camera and feeling his cheeks grow redder with each passing second, Fitz makes eye contact with the camera operator who gestures for him to keep talking. Taking a nervous breath, Fitz turns his gaze back to Hill and tries to concentrate on her rather than the fact that everything he’s saying is being broadcast live to whomever decided to turn on ESPN this morning. 

“It implied that Jemma had somehow let me down the other day, losing her match and everything, and I just… that’s ridiculous. Jemma Simmons is the best tennis player in the world, she could kick my arse up and down a court that’s for sure, and… and it’s frankly insulting that anyone could ever think that someone with so much talent, who works so hard, could be anything other than legendary to me.” 

Feeling suddenly bolstered, he straightens in his chair and decides that this is his chance to vocalize the things that he’d far prefer telling _one_ person rather than an entire nation. 

“I don’t think there’s anyone in this sport that I respect or admire quite as much as I do Jemma and I… I just wanted to make that very clear. In no world has she let me down, if anything I let _her_ down and… for that I’m very sorry. But… that’s not really… I didn’t really mean to get into… I just wanted to say that, this is my last match at Wimbledon but I have every intention of being here next year to watch Jemma Simmons walk away with the title. Because she’s a champion and… and… that’s all.” 

He gives a small shrug, quickly glancing at the camera before ducking down again and moving to pull the microphone from his shirt. He’s pretty sure that most involved in this production were expecting him to stay a bit longer, perhaps _actually_ answer a question or two, but Fitz suddenly feels the need to escape. Fumbling with the mic, Fitz listens as Hill, ever the consummate professional, turns her gaze back to the camera and says, “Leo Fitz everyone. The Wimbledon Men’s Finals begin at noon, Will Daniels joins us next.” 

When the recording light goes off, Fitz shoots Maria an apologetic look as one of the crew comes to lend a hand and tug the mic from beneath his shirt. “Thanks for letting me… do that.” 

Giving him a short nod and a wry grin, Hill says, “Not a problem, though, next time a heads up would be nice. For example: Daniels is scheduled to arrive in…” She glances over at her watch before flipping through the notes in her hands and continuing, “...two minutes so, if you’re looking to avoid him until you walk onto the court…” 

He’s up from the chair as her words trail off and gives her a grateful smile as he begins moving towards the waiting Daisy. “Noted. Thanks Maria. Appreciate it.” 

He makes it a few steps before Hill is calling his name and he turns around with his brows raised as he questions, “Yeah?” 

She gives him a quick wink and says, “Good luck today,” before returning her gaze to her notes and preparing for her next interview. 

Smiling as he turns back around, Fitz makes his way towards Daisy and feels another small weight lift as he processes the fact that he did in fact do what he thinks he did. With _that_ massive hurdle already overcome, he only has the _other_ one left to deal with today. 

Clapping him on the back, Daisy tugs him along and they begin their stroll to the locker room. He can feel the questions that are practically radiating off of her, the curiosity and desire to know more, and is grateful that she’s good enough at reading _him_ to know not to ask them. They amble their way through the grounds in silence until they make it to the men’s locker room and Daisy turns to face him. 

She gives him an affectionate smile, reaching forward to run her fingers through his hair before straightening the collar on his polo. When she returns her gaze to him, the pride and fondness in her eyes makes him duck his head. Cuffing him on the shoulder, Daisy ducks down until she catches his eye and gives him a cheshire cat grin. 

“You ready for this?” 

Letting out a sigh as his head falls against her shoulder, Fitz mumbles out, “Not even remotely.”


	27. Pep and Prep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hahahahahaha. We're nearing the end and I STILL haven't finished the last bit. This thing is killing me slowly but IT WILL HAPPEN.

After parting with Daisy, Fitz walks into the locker room and is promptly greeted by Coulson. Handing him the stack of match towels, the older man gives him a warm smile before picking up another badge and extending it to him. “As it's the finals, the organization wanted to offer you the use of the first-seed facilities.” 

Fitz furrows his brows as he plucks the pass from Coulson’s fingers and lets his eyes skim over the letters. Glancing around the empty room and reflecting on how many times he's been here, how many lockers he's claimed as his own over the years, Fitz shakes his head and looks at Coulson with a grin as he pushes the pass back in his direction.  

“Y’know… I think I'm actually good where I am.” 

Coulson nods his head with a fond smile, tossing the pass back behind his station before shooting him a wink and stating, “I told them you'd say that.”

Giving another small smile, Fitz says, “Happy to be predictable,” before moving into the locker room and promptly dropping his bag on the floor. Running his fingers through his hair, Fitz stares blankly in front of him as the pressure begins to mount. 

So lost in the fog that is now surrounding him, Fitz doesn’t even register that someone else has entered the room until a hand is being waved in front of his face. Blinking out of his daze, Fitz looks up to find Trip grinning down at him in a mixture of amusement and concern. Letting out a sigh, Fitz feels his shoulders sink as he shoots his friend the barest of smiles. The gesture clearly does little in way of hiding his nerves because in the next second Trip is clapping a hand to his shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze before collapsing on the bench across from him. 

“You ready man?” 

Letting out a sigh at Trip’s question, Fitz slumps further down on the bench groans, “I really wish people would stop asking me that.”

Trip laughs in response, reaching over to give him another sympathetic pat on the shoulder before leveling him with a serious look. “Just remember, hit the ball over the net as hard and as often as possible.” 

Trip breaks out into a grin at the end of his statement, too inherently buoyant to feign seriousness for more than a few seconds, and Fitz rolls his eyes as he bends down to begin lacing up his shoes. 

“Thank you. Thanks for that. Not sure I would've remembered the basic principle of tennis on my own.” 

Trip lets out a low chuckle, leaning back against the lockers and crossing his arms over his chest with an easy smile. “It's what I'm here for.” 

It's silent for a few moments as Fitz begins to methodically re-grip his racquet before Trip leans forward again and ducks down until Fitz catches his eye. “I'm _also_ here to remind you to take a breath every once and awhile. This is just a game, Fitz. It's not life or death.” 

Letting out a sigh, Fitz shoves his racquet back into his bag before leaning back and carding his fingers through his hair. “That I actually _do_ forget sometimes.”  

“I know man, hence the reminder.” 

Fitz gives Trip a wry grin and finds himself growing _marginally_ less anxious in the presence of his friend. The other man’s easy-going nature, though often irksome to his own grumpy self, is contagious now and Fitz is grateful for the brief moment of not being plagued by nerves. Continuing the process of getting ready for the match, Fitz listens in amusement as Trip intentionally tries to distract him from what’s to come. Said distraction predominantly comes from Trip detailing how he plans on _officially_ asking Daisy out after the tournament, and Fitz has to hide a smile at the fact that it’s now _Trip_ who seems nervous. 

After a few hums and short words of agreement, Trip must realize that his audience isn’t quite as focused on his dilemma as he’d like, so he just lets out a laugh before growing quiet and letting Fitz finish checking the tension of his strings. After spending a few minutes in silence, Coulson appears from around the corner and motions for the two men

“Fitz? It’s time. 

The words are like ice water to his veins and whatever momentary balm Trip had provided vanishes in an instant. Clenching his hands, Fitz repacks his tennis bag and shuts his eyes. He allows himself a few moments of darkness before letting out a groan, heaving himself off the bench, and mumbling, “Let’s get this over with.” 

Trip lets out a snort, clapping a hand on Fitz’s back as they make their way towards the waiting Coulson. “That’s the spirit.” 

When the trio reaches the doors to the locker room, Coulson turns to Fitz with the same paternal smile he’s been giving him since he was just a teen. The other man puts a hand on his neck, eyes zeroing in on him with intensity as he says, “You _can_ do this Fitz. Not a doubt in my mind about that.” 

He feels his eyelids prickle with unshed tears at Coulson’s confidence and pulls back with an appreciative smile that he _hopes_ the other man knows is meant for more than just this one moment. Coulson has been a steady presence in his life over the years, offering more support and open ears than nearly anyone else in the sport, and Fitz is certain that he wouldn’t be here today were it not for the guidance offered by the man before him. Leaning forward and wrapping Coulson in a hug, Fitz mumbles his thanks and smiles when he hears what sounds very much like a sniffle. 

When he pulls away, he notices that Coulson’s eyes are unquestionably more watery than normal but can’t even _tease_ him about it since he’s certain that his are just as red-rimmed. Coulson must notice because he straightens immediately and gives him a quick wink before bodily pushing Fitz out the door and ushering him towards the hallway. 

“Go on then.” 

Giving the older man one last smile over his shoulder, Fitz takes the hint and begins moving towards the passageway with Trip by his side. They walk in silence, each step feeling like one closer to a fate that still seems questionable, and Fitz takes steadying breaths all the way until they reach the point where they’ll have to separate. At the start of the tunnel, Trip pulls him into a crushing hug that Fitz does his best to reciprocate. His heart is beating rapidly in his chest and, as his arms wrap around his friend, Fitz feels as though he’s holding on to a literal lifeline.  

When they break apart, Trip gives him his customary grin as he says, “Go get ‘em buddy.” 

Nodding his head, Fitz hoists his bag further up his shoulder before taking a breath and beginning his walk through the underpass. The tunnel leading from the locker and press rooms to the stadium feels miles long as Fitz makes his way through it. Will is already standing at the end, broad-shouldered and generally massive as he waits before the doors, and Fitz suddenly feels every bit the low-ranked player when he comes to a stop next to him. They're silent for a few long moments, neither acknowledging the other until Will shifts and lets out a snort. 

“I did try to warn you about her. Simmons doesn't do long-term, her only interest is finding someone that can scratch the itch and keep her winning. Clearly you couldn't manage either.” 

At the comment, Fitz’s hands tighten where they're wrapped around the strap of his tennis bag. He breathes slowly through his nose, silently reminding himself that, as much as he'd like to add a bit of black-and-blue symmetry to the other man’s face, punching Will Daniels seconds before the Wimbledon finals is likely a terrible idea. So, rather than let the oaf think he’s successfully rattled him, Fitz keeps his attention on the doors ahead and remains stubbornly silent. 

At his lack of reaction, Will lets out another snort and leans down until he's a few millimeters from his face. “By the way, how’s the weak back?” 

Glancing at the other man in his peripheral vision, Fitz catches sight of the bruising around his eye and grins. Hoisting his bag further up his arm, he keeps his head forward as he replies, “Great, actually. Hand’s a bit sore though, punched some sexist moron at a party the other night.” He can't resist turning to face Will and smirks at the scowl on the other man’s face. Affecting a curious expression, Fitz tilts his head and continues, “Speaking of, how’s the weak mind?” 

With that the tunnel doors open and Fitz pushes past Will, not waiting for an answer and instead walking onto the court and into the sunlight as the crowd’s deafening cheers surround him. 

The stadium is a sea of red, white, and blue, but Fitz can't help but notice that a vast majority of the crowd seems to be waving flags comprised of the _latter_ two colors. Even those who _aren't_ seem to be happy waving the English flag in place of the American, keeping things in the British family, and Fitz finds himself stunned by the display. 

It's hard to discern what it is that’s actually being chanted, but Fitz catches his name more than a few times as he makes a slow spin and takes in the sight of a sold-out stadium. While he’s played in Grand Slam finals before, making it to _Wimbledon_ is an entirely different experience. It’s the closest thing he has to a home turf and the excitement of the crowd that is directed towards _him_ suddenly gives him a burst of adrenaline. 

Daniels of course seems entirely unaffected by the raucous nature of the stadium, brushing past him without a glance and immediately beginning his pre-match prep. Watching for a moment as Will unpacks his bag of the frankly ridiculous amount of accoutrements stuffed within them, Fitz shakes his head in an attempt to clear it before moving to his own chair on the other side of the net. Pulling out his choice racquet, Fitz carefully places a towel beside the awaiting bottles of water and does  a few light stretches as he awaits instructions. 

The various Wimbledon staff are bustling about, checking the court one last time to ensure that it’s playable, and Fitz nervously twists and turns in place until one of them motions towards the ump. The gesture causes the older gentlemen to turn towards him as a ball boy scurries over with a freshly opened can. 

“Mr. Fitz, as the lower seed, you get to warm-up first. Ten minutes on the clock.” 

Nodding his head in understanding, Fitz takes the tennis balls from the boy’s outstretched hand and gives him an appreciative smile. “Thanks…” Fitz pauses, waiting for the boy to finish the sentence and doesn’t wait more than a second before he’s eagerly replies, “Donnie, sir.” 

Nodding again with a smile, Fitz bounces one ball against the grass, then another, then the third, testing their feel before handing one back for the boy to hold. “Thanks Donnie.” 

Moving to the baseline, Fitz begins the process of warming up. He remembers something an older player had told him during his first slam: to use this time to find a balance between intimidating his opponent while holding back enough to surprise them later in the match. He’d never quite gotten the hang of it, usually falling too far on one side than the other- hitting at 200% or 20%- and finds that he’s still entirely uncertain as to what he’s meant to do. So, rather than trying to show-off or downplay, Fitz simply uses this time as it’s intended to be used. 

He focuses on precision shots, mentally picking a spot on the court before placing a serve as close as he can get it, and alternates between topspin, slice, and kick-serves while doing do. He’s never been known as a powerhouse on the court, but has spent his years on the circuit training and practicing as wide a variety of shots as possible to give himself a fighting chance against players like Will, known for hitting hard more than anything else. 

It’s not long before the ump is calling out, “Switch,” and Fitz lets out a short exhale at the realization that the _next_ time he steps out on this court, it’ll be for real. 

He makes his way to the the side, immediately beginning a series of PT stretches to stay as loose as possible before the match begins. As he goes through the routine that Bobbi had hammered into him during her bout as his self-appointed trainer, he watches with growing anxiety as Daniels begins to pound serve after serve to the other side of the court. Evidently, Daniels has no need or desire to tone things down, far preferring to intimidate in these ten minutes. Watching Will’s warm-up is a harsh reminder that Fitz is going up against the now number one ranked player in men’s tennis and he feels his nerves increase each and every time the tennis ball slams against the grass. 

Based on the quick mood shift of the crowd, he’s fairly certain that he’s not the only one who’s suddenly remembered just how far apart he and Daniels are in the rankings. 

He tries to focus on his stretching rather than the grunting and telltale sound of ball hitting racquet, but as the minutes seem to drag Fitz finds himself unable to do anything other than watch as Will makes an impressive display of his serves and groundstrokes. Finally the chair ump puts him out of his misery, calling time on Will’s warm-up and motioning for the two men to make their way to him for the coin toss. 

“Mr. Daniels as the higher seed, you get to call it. 

“Heads.” 

With that, the coin is tossed in the air and Fitz watches as it twists in every which direction before falling to the grass. He doesn't even have to look down to know what side will be facing up, too aware that today will most decidedly _not_ be his day. 

Sure enough, the umpire squats down and plucks up the coin before holding it up and announcing, “Heads.” 

Looking up with a smarmy grin, Will keeps his eyes trained on Fitz as he states, “I'll serve.” 

Having just spent the better part of ten minutes watching Daniels practice, Fitz understands why the other man is so cocky in his decision. The likelihood of him breaking Will’s serve seems nigh impossible at this point and, with one flip of a coin, the final nail seems to have been hammered into the proverbial coffin. 

Giving a decisive nod, Fitz extends his hand for the mandatory shake, grasping Will’s for a fraction of a second before immediately dropping it. The tension feels palpable at this point and the umpire gives them both a speculative look before firmly nodding once and clapping his hands together. 

“Right then, let’s begin.”


	28. Finals

Fitz falls to the grass with a groan, his outstretched arm unsuccessful at deflecting the ball that Will had smacked over the net, and feels the sweat dripping from his face as he pushes himself up and glances at the scoreboard. The 5 shifts to a 6 and, with that, he’s lost another set. Giving an aggravated slap to the ground, Fitz hoists himself to his feet and slowly makes his way to the sidelines, collapsing into the chair with an aching back and a throbbing skull.

He mumbles his thanks when a ball boy offers him a towel and immediately burrows his face into it in an attempt to shut out whatever he can of his surroundings. Though it does little to block out the din of the crowd, it at least provides a brief respite from having to  _ see  _ the masses of people that he’s letting down.

To say his confidence had been low coming into this thing would be an understatement, but even he is surprised by how much it’s dropped over the course of these first two sets. With each point lost (and game that promptly followed) Fitz has felt the energy and excitement of the crowd wane into an almost tangible melancholy. In two sets he’s barely managed to win three games, each of them a lengthy duel with more ads than he recalls experiencing in all of his year’s matches combined, and is fairly positive that he won’t be winning another before this final comes to an end.

“Time.”

The sound of the umpire’s voice sends another groan through him and Fitz lets the towel fall to the ground before quickly taking a swig of water and pushing himself to his feet. As he moves by the net on his way to the other end of the court, Will shoves his shoulder against his and mutters, “Too easy,” as he passes. Fitz glares at the other man for a moment, watching the back of his head knowing that a smug smirk is on the other side, before making his way to the baseline.

Shaking his head to clear it as much as he can, Fitz crouches down and gets ready to return. He spins his racquet once while keeping his gaze on the bouncing ball on the opposite side of the court before stiffening at the sight of Will tossing it into the air. He watches the neon blob as it's smacked from the air and only has a split second to guess where it might be heading. On instinct, he begins to shift right before realizing that the spin of the ball is pushing it to his left. Changing tactics, Fitz pushes himself in the other direction, flinging out an arm in the hopes that just getting his racquet on it will ricochet the ball back over the net.

Of course, he  _ doesn't  _ get his racquet on it, and instead watches as the ball zings an inch from his reach.

A few seconds after the serve flies past him, Fitz hears an unmistakeable yelp of pain and feels something twist in his gut, immediately knowing what’s happened.

Turning around, Fitz is unsurprised when he catches sight of the ball boy,  _ Donnie _ , kneeling on the floor and clutching his face in his hands as Lincoln quickly moves to his side. The sight is a familiar one, invoking a feeling of deja vu as Fitz remembers a similar instance in which  _ he  _ was the person responsible for causing it. His stomach drops when the telltale sound of sniffles can be heard over the concerned murmuring of the crowd and he takes a step forward before a  _ different  _ memory pops into his head.

The conversation with Jemma flashes through his mind and Fitz pauses as he remembers her words. While the circumstances are different this time around (he’s certainly not playing well and  _ definitely  _ isn’t on the cusp of victory) the general principle behind her lecture remains. 

Though concerned for the boy, and suddenly furious with Will who’s now boredly bouncing a ball on the opposite end of the court, Fitz knows that there’s nothing he personally can do to help. He’s not a medic, he’s not a family member, and he’s not a person that can do much other than hover awkwardly in concern while people who  _ can  _ help do so.

So, rather than walking off the court and following the boy as he’s guided by Lincoln to one of the on-site medical rooms, Fitz remains on the grass. The hand not gripping his racquet clenches into a fist as he glances over at Will and takes in the other man’s unaffected expression. While he himself isn't getting  _ quite _ as emotional over the incident as he might have in the past, it's at least a conscious effort. Will seems to not care in the slightest, giving him an exasperated look of, “ _ Well?,”  _ when Fitz meets his eye.

The look, coupled with Will’s gesture, seems to break the spell that's descended on the stadium because, not a second later, the umpire’s voice is ringing out through the speakers.

“Let’s resume.”

Blinking sluggishly to bring himself back to the present, Fitz makes a show of taking his time walking back to his position on the baseline. Will Daniels is a right arsehole and, though he's not deluded enough to think he can actually  _ win _ , Fitz has every intention of prolonging his opponent’s victory for as long as he can… even if it's just the few extra seconds he takes to get ready.

Glaring at Will, Fitz crouches in position and feels his eyes narrow even further at the arrogant look on the other man’s face. The smugness, combined with the unaffected shrug he gives prior to bouncing the ball against the grass, causes the coil of anger in Fitz’s gut to expand. He begins mumbling under his breath as Will tosses the ball into the air, each passing millisecond making him that much more determined to do his utmost to put Daniels in his place.

“What a bloody wanker. I give you a black eye so you go and give one to a  _ kid?  _ I’m gonna...”

Whatever threat he'd  _ planned _ on voicing aloud is replaced with a grunt as Fitz pushes off from the ground and swings his racquet in what results in a rather sub-par return that Daniels easily puts away on his next shot to win the point.

“ _ Fuck. _ ”

Plucking at his strings in frustration, Fitz feels himself slip into familiar territory as the self-reproach plays on a loop in his mind.

_ Not fast enough. Not strong enough. Not good enough. Can't win a single damn point let alone the match.  _

The words have never felt more true than now and, when he tries to find some part of his brain to counter them, Fitz is met only with silence. The invisible weight feels crushing as he glances around the stadium and registers the disappointed faces of the crowd. He keeps his eyes pointedly away from where he knows his mother and friends are seated, not wanting to see  _ their  _ disappointment, and shifts his gaze to his shoes as they begin to move without conscious thought.

The buzzing in his ears and the deafening thump of his heart carries him back to the baseline where he feels himself grow somehow even more detached from his body. Using his shoulder to wipe the sweat from his brow, Fitz blinks sluggishly ahead and barely registers the sight of Will’s arm arcing over his head and pushing the ball in his direction.

Moving in a fugue state, Fitz gets his racquet on the ball just quick enough to make a commendable forehand return. Shuffling his way back to the center of the court, he only has a few seconds before Will is sending the ball rocketing back at him and  _ just  _ manages to flick it back in the other direction.

The back and forth continues until the only sound on the court is the loud smack of ball against racquet and the occasional grunt of whomever is hitting it.

It’s a bit of an out-of-body experience and Fitz finds that his body seems to be moving on instinct more than anything else. His mind is utterly blank as his feet scuffle against the grass while his hands loosen and tighten where they’re gripped around his racquet. It’s groundstroke after groundstroke until Will flicks his wrist and sends the ball softly over the net, forcing Fitz to use what little energy he has left to sprint forward and get there before the second bounce.

He’s not entirely sure what it is that sends him toppling to the ground, whether it was a spot of too-worn grass or simply a misstep, but all he can register is the flash of pain that shoots up his spine when he hits the grass. The sharpness of the feeling causes the breath to whoosh from his lungs as he lays with his face to the sun and tries to pull in enough oxygen to rid the stars from his eyes. He dimly registers that the audible gasp of the crowd has transformed into concerned murmurs but can’t focus on much more than the agonizing spasms in his back that are keeping him decidedly immobile.

He makes an attempt to roll to his side, hoping that a change in position might diminish the feeling of hot knives sliding between his vertebrae, but immediately stops when the movement only heightens the pain. He tries to remember the multitude of advice and exercises given to him by the various doctors (and Bobbi) over the years and tries to regulate his breathing while focusing on cataloging each twinge in his body.

Though the pain  _ seems  _ unbearable, Fitz is aware that, in reality, he’s experienced worse. It’s nothing compared to what he’d felt after  _ the  _ injury, which abates some of the panic coursing through him at the thought of  _ this  _ one being enough to seriously damage him for good. He’s gotten many warnings over the years about what could happen should he do anything further to his back, and spent much of his earlier, post-recovery, matches playing at 10% for fear of the potential repercussions.

It’s not long before Lincoln’s worried face is shielding him from the sun. Blinking sluggishly up at him, it takes a moment for Fitz to comprehend that the other man’s moving lips must mean that Lincoln is actually  _ saying  _ something. Focusing on blocking out the white noise, Fitz concentrates on his friend until he parses together the words leaving his friend’s mouth.

“Tell me what the problem is Fitz.”

Through gritted teeth he manages to get out, “Back,” before immediately feeling a bit idiotic because of  _ course  _ his back is the problem. Still, Lincoln seems to take the response seriously, his brow furrowing as he further questions, “Upper, lower?”

“Middle… low.”

“Sharp or achy?”

“Sharp.”

“At a specific point or everywhere?”

“Starts at one point and shoots up.”

“How bad? Scale from one to ten.”

“Seven.”

“Psychosomatic?”

Fitz takes a moment to contemplate this one, wriggling slightly on the ground to test Lincoln’s unspoken hypothesis before wincing at the flash of pain that shoots up his body again. 

_ Definitely not in his head. _

“If so then a very minimal amount.”

Nodding his head at that, Lincoln shifts his hands so that they’re in his line of sight and it’s only then that Fitz realizes they’d been moving over him, poking and prodding, throughout the line of questioning.

“Okay. All reaction times are normal. No noticeable nerve damage. I don’t think this is anything to worry too much about in terms of lasting problems. My guess is that you twisted something and the combination of the old injury and the exertion from the past few weeks just heightened everything… pinched nerve maybe.”

Though the diagnosis doesn’t  _ physically  _ make him feel any better, Fitz feels a wave of relief wash through him at the confirmation that whatever he’s done to himself won’t be life-changing in the long run.

“I’m going to roll you a bit and try and work the muscles to see if that’ll help.”

He lets out a grunt of acquiescence, gritting his teeth when Lincoln does exactly what he said he would and shifts him until he’s lying on his stomach. He feels the tension slowly leave him as the doctor’s fingers rub against his back, zeroing in on where Fitz had indicated was the source of the pain, and lets out a slow sigh of relief when the sharpness turns into a throbbing ache. Lincoln must notice the physical shift because his hands make one more firm press against the joints along his spine before he pulls his fingers away and asks, “Better?”

The fact that he can maneuver himself onto his back without tears welling up in his eyes is likely answer enough but Fitz nods his head anyway and the movement opens a crack in Lincoln’s serious expression. The other man gives his own nod of the head before pushing himself to his feet and extending a hand down for Fitz to take. He takes another few moments to simply breathe before reaching up and grasping Lincoln’s hand in his own. He slowly makes it to his feet with the help of Lincoln’s steadying hand, pulling in a deep breath as the other man’s fingers dance along his spine, and lets out another sigh of relief when there’s no crippling pain to send him back to the ground.

“Can you play?”

The low question prompts Fitz to do a few light stretches, twisting his hips and leaning in every which direction to try and loosen what Lincoln’s hands couldn’t. When the only feeling continues to be the underlying ache and occasional twinge, Fitz gives a small nod and replies, “Yeah.”

“Do you  _ want _ to?”

_ This  _ is the real question and Fitz finds that his mind is immediately responding with a vehement  _ no.  _ He does  _ not  _ want to play. He doesn’t want to move like a slug in this blistering heat, he doesn’t want to do something  _ else  _ to hurt his back, and he doesn’t want to continue this slow torture of being crushed in the Wimbledon final by an arsehole that he’d very much like to give  _ another  _ black eye to. He doesn’t want to waste anymore of his or anyone else’s time and, most of all, he doesn’t want to continue being a national embarrassment.

The thought causes his eyes to flicker towards the friends and family box and he immediately catches sight of his mother standing worriedly and looking in his direction. The image causes his heart to swell and suddenly all of his reasons for  _ not  _ wanting to play evaporate from his mind. Because, looking from his mum to Hunter and Bobbi and Trip and Daisy, he’s reminded that he has a few very good reasons to soldier on. This single match is a culmination of fifteen  _ years  _ of personal sacrifice, not just from himself, and he’s going to see it through no matter how much of a fiasco he’ll continue to be.

Nodding his head at Lincoln’s question, Fitz gives his mum a small thumbs up and, even from this distance, can see the way her body seems to sag in relief at the confirmation that he’s okay.

The small gesture isn’t missed by the crowd either and a smattering of applause and light cheering envelops the stadium. At the sound, a Wimbledon staff member wearing a ridiculous looking headset appears at their side and turns to Lincoln in question.

“Update?”

Giving his gesture of approval, Lincoln claps a hand on Fitz’s shoulder and responds, “Good to go.” The staffer glances at Fitz in confirmation and, at the nod of his head, he moves back towards the chair umpire to relay the information. As the men confer, Lincoln walks the few steps to where his racquet is still lying on the ground, picking it up and handing it to him. Reaching forward, Fitz moves to take the racquet but finds that Lincoln is unwilling to release his grip. Glancing at his friend in confusion, Fitz raises a questioning brow at the indescribable look on Lincoln’s face.

“Look, there’s no shame in stopping if it becomes too much… but you  _ can _ do this Fitz. You can finish.”

Swallowing heavily, Fitz gives the smallest of smiles (really just a minuscule upturn of his lips) and nods his head at the words. Releasing his hold on the Babolat, Lincoln gives him one more squeeze of the shoulder before shouldering his own medical bag and moving back to periphery of the court. Fitz watches him go, once again grateful to be able to call the other man a friend, and rolls his shoulders to test his pain levels.

“Are we playing or what?”

Glancing over at where Will is waiting with his arms out on the opposite end of the court, Fitz manages to ignore the base reaction to flip the other man off and instead makes eye contact with the umpire to indicate that he’ll be continuing.

Swinging an arm and pulling in a calming breath, Fitz shuffles his way back to the baseline to the sound of another round of applause, Hunter’s whoops and hollers distinguishable from the rest and bringing a genuine smile to his face.

“Score is thirty-fifteen, Daniels’ serve. Let's resume.”

The words cause Fitz’s brows to raise as he realizes that he had been so focused on the pain that the last point caused, he'd entirely missed the fact that he'd actually  _ won it. _ Blinking in surprise, he shakes his head slightly in an attempt to clear it and crouches awkwardly- still too stiff and uncomfortable to position himself as he normally would- as he awaits Will’s serve.

As he watches the other man bounce the ball, Fitz feels a single drop of water hit the inside of his wrist and casts a nervous glance at the ominous cloud that is now hovering above the stadium.

_ You can’t be serious _ .

He doesn't have time to question why the cosmos seem to be so determined to make his life hell, as the next moment has Will’s wrist snapping in a textbook serve that sends the ball rocketing towards him. By some miracle Fitz manages to stick his arm out quickly enough to give a short thwack to the ball and  _ just  _ send it back over the net. He can feel the drops begin to fall as he backpedals to the baseline and feels another sharp twinge in his back when he is immediately forced to reverse course as Will puts in minimal effort to tap a drop-shot into the service box.

He knows he won’t be able to make it, his back protesting each and every movement he makes, but still pushes forward as the rain begins to come down. Stumbling, he flicks his wrist and manages to make contact with the ball as he tumbles forward. Slipping on the grass again, Fitz watches through sweat and rain as the ball hits the net and falls unceremoniously to the ground in time with a loud clap of thunder. 

Rolling onto his back, Fitz shuts his eyes as the clouds open up and feels the rain hit his face as he lays on the ground, one drop, then another, then a dozen. Blinking his eyes open again, he revels in the feeling of the droplets sliding along his skin until he catches sight of the runners in his peripheral vision. Pushing himself off the grass with a wince, his hand immediately moving to the sharp pain in his back, Fitz runs across the grass as the Wimbledon staffers hurriedly tug a tarp over the court to protect it from the deluge.

A ball girl is waiting for him at the sidelines with an open umbrella and Fitz waves her off as he snatches his racquet bag off the ground. Already drenched at this point, he knows there’s no real need to be protected from the rain and finds himself taking comfort at the feeling of the cool drops splashing against his skin.

He waits just long enough to hear the chair ump call for a pause to the match before making his way to the tunnel entrance, grateful that the crowd seems more concerned with the rain than him. He finds himself feeling grateful for his earlier decision to turn down access to the top-seed locker room, not wanting to spend even a second of this break, however long it might wind up being, with Will.

He slowly makes his way through the tunnel and thanks his lucky stars that it's empty save for him, the usual people milling about nowhere to be seen.

Finally at the end, Fitz tiredly pushes his way into the locker room, catching the try towel from the air as Coulson tosses it to him, and gives the older man a dejected nod of the head as he does. Running the towel over his hair and face, Fitz listens with little interest as Coulson says, “Looks like they managed to cover the court before too much water hit, so it'll still be playable. Just have to wait out the showers themselves and then the match will resume… shouldn’t be more than 30 minutes.”

Letting out a low groan, Fitz rubs a hand over his face while muttering, “Fantastic,” under his breath.

It’s quiet for a long moment before Coulson breaks the silence. “And  _ while  _ we wait things out…”

Recognizing the tone of Coulson’s voice, the one that speaks of the man’s former life as a history teacher, Fitz quickly looks up and gives the other man a warning look, cutting him off before he can continue. “I’m really not in the mood for a lecture.”

At his words, or perhaps the snappish manner with which he’d spoken them, Coulson raises a brow and shoots him a look that immediately has Fitz hanging his head. It grows quiet again but it’s not long before Fitz feels a gentle pressure on his arm. Glancing up, he catches sight of the understanding expression on Coulson’s face as the older man squeezes his shoulder.

“Well too bad because you’re going to get one whether you like it or not… just not from me.”

The older man nods his head in the direction of the lockers and Fitz furrows his brows as he glances over, his heartbeat doubling in speed when his gaze locks on the one person he hadn't expected to see anytime soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O_O I have some serious writing to do this weekend...


	29. Game Changer

“What are you doing here?” 

He doesn’t mean to sound petulant, doesn’t intend for his words to come out more snappy than curious, but he’s exhausted in every sense of the word and can’t do much to hide the bitterness that has accumulated over the course of the day. Though a part of him is utterly ecstatic to see Jemma, Fitz has no interest in getting his hopes up. Already a miserable day, he doesn't want to do anything (like deluding himself into thinking Jemma might be here for a _good_ reason) to make it worse.  

At his question, Jemma stands from where she’d been sitting on the bench, tucking her hair behind her ear and giving him a small smile that does little to belay the warring emotions behind her eyes. Her hands hover at her sides, fingers clenched into fists in a telltale sign of anxiety, and Fitz waits expectantly for her to answer. It's silent for another long moment before Jemma gives what he _assumes_ is meant to be a casual shrug.  

“Oh, you know. Just wanted to see if there was much of a difference between the men’s and women’s locker rooms. Other than the _smell_ I’d say they're pretty…”  

“Jemma.” 

She stops talking immediately at the sound of her name, croaked and pleading coming from his mouth, and looks at him for a long moment as she bites her lip. Her eyes flit across him, likely cataloguing every sweat stain and hidden pain, and Fitz watches as her feigned playfulness transforms into a nervousness that he’s not quite sure what to make of. She shifts on her feet, eyes moving from him to the floor as her hand flies to her forehead. The gesture causes his brow to raise because he knows it as being the only _real_ nervous tick that Jemma has- used too infrequently in her career for anyone else to pick up on it- and he watches with interest as she takes what appears to be a steadying breath. Holding his _own_ breath when her eyes meet his, Fitz feels his heart quicken as whatever thoughts or emotions she’d been struggling with seem to disappear in an instant, replaced with the unflinching confidence that he so admires.  

“I saw your ESPN interview this morning... Couldn't avoid it actually. Every TV at the airport was playing it.” 

It’s not exactly what he’d been hoping, or even _expecting_ , Jemma would say, but Fitz knows that the admittance is a significant one if the expectant look in her eyes is anything to go by. He swallows nervously as she looks at him, fingers rubbing at his ear while his cheeks pinken under her gaze, and takes a hesitant step forward. 

“Oh. That’s… what umm… what’d you think of it?” 

He's not actually sure he _wants_ to know, still uncertain if this is a hello or goodbye visit, but he can't quite control his curiosity. Jemma wouldn't have brought up the interview unless she had a reason to and he watches nervously as her gaze focuses on him. 

“Not bad Fitz, Leo Fitz.” 

His lips flicker upwards at the familiar mash-up of his name and he feels something tighten in his chest at the clear olive branch Jemma has extended.  

“Daisy thought it was a terrible idea but… no worse than wearing a t-shirt to the ESPY’s right?” 

He gives a self-deprecating smile at that and feels something clench in his gut when Jemma returns it with one of her own as she softly replies, “No.” 

It’s silent for a few long moments as they stare at each other and Fitz feels the tension between them increase with each passing second. Finally, when he can’t take it any longer and realizes that Jemma won’t be the one to break the silence, Fitz lets his body sag in defeat- weakened by the day and broken by the stand-off. 

“Jemma… what are you doing here?” 

“I wanted to see you… play. I wanted to watch your last match.” 

He doesn't miss the slight pause after _you_ and feels a flicker of hope at the nanosecond of silence between words. The rational part of him is still blasting noise in his mind, warning him not to read too much into things and open himself up for more potential heartbreak, but the expression on Jemma’s face- as though she's revealed too much too soon- causes him to push forward. Moving his hand back to his neck, Fitz glances at the floor and scuffs his shoe against the slate tile as he mutters, “You should have saved yourself the cab fare. Bit of a disaster today.”  

Glancing up to shoot Jemma another self-deprecating smile, Fitz feels the stress at the reminder of his match fade when he catches sight of the light in her eyes and the coy happiness behind her teasing smile. 

“Well… at least you didn’t implode when the ball boy got hit.” 

The comment startles a chuff of laughter from him and Fitz can't help but give Jemma a droll look when he catches sight of her pleased expression. “True. I imploded the second I walked onto the court. Absolute rubbish today.” 

“ _Fitz._ ” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know. The only player who's beating me _is me_. Sorry.”  

She lets out an exasperated groan, taking a step closer to him and raising her hands as she speaks. “Well don’t apologize to _me,_ I love you. Apologize to the _millions_ of people that are counting on you to wipe that smug smirk off Will Daniels’ face!” 

He feels the breath whoosh from his lungs at Jemma’s words and stares at her in astonishment as he tries to calculate the likelihood that he'd just imagined the whole thing. He very well could have, the expression on her face giving no indication that she's just said anything out of the ordinary, but he doesn't think his mind could be so cruel as to make him hallucinate such a confession. Taking another step forward, he whispers, “What did you just say?” 

“Fitz, I know you don’t see it, but it’s _you_ that people are rooting f…” 

Cutting her off before she can get too worked up about what he's sure will be quite the pep-talk, Fitz moves closer and says, “Not that, the other bit.” 

Jemma furrows her brows and shakes her head in confusion at that. “The other…” 

“The middle bit.” 

She pauses for a moment, reflecting back on the last minute of exchanges, until her eyes widen with realization. The sight, along with the blooming blush on Jemma’s cheeks, causes Fitz's heart to hammer in his chest and he holds his breath as he waits for Jemma to reply. He's a bit worried that realizing what she's said will cause Jemma to take it back or explain it away, and feels his heart quicken once again when she meets his gaze and opens her mouth. 

“Oh. I… I love you.” 

The way she says it, paired with a slight shrug as though it's a simple, undeniable, fact, causes an instantaneous warmth to flood his system and suddenly transform every feeling in his body to elation. She looks simultaneously nervous and assured, as though her certainty in her statement can't quite overwhelm the sheer terror of professing it aloud, and Fitz waits in stunned silence as he processes it all. Finally, after a few long moments spent convincing himself that this is _real_ , Fitz lets a smile bloom across his face and nods his head. 

“Well that's a relief because I love you too.” 

With one sentence Fitz watches the tension leave Jemma’s body as her own tentative smile breaks out across her face. He's sure he's beaming like a lunatic, but the sight doesn't seem to do anything other than make Jemma’s smile widen. She takes a step forward, teeth biting her lip as though it will be enough to keep her unbridled happiness from being _too_ obvious, and Fitz feels laughter bubbling up within him when she keeps moving until coming to a stop just in front of him.  

“Yeah?” 

He's not sure how she can even ask when his feelings for her have been written clearly across his face since their first meeting, but nods all the same. He can understand needing to reassure oneself and will happily tell Jemma as much and as often as she wishes that he's been head over heels for her since the start. 

“Yeah.” 

Releasing her lip, Jemma frees her smile and stares at him with such affection that Fitz finds himself lost for breath. 

“What do you think we should do about it?” 

If that isn't an invitation, Fitz doesn't know what is, so he quickly drops the towel he's been wringing in his hands to cup Jemma’s face and capture her mouth with his own. 

Her own hands immediately fist in his hair and Fitz briefly wants to warn her about his sweatiness before she nips at his lip and all thoughts not related to kissing the woman in front of him leave his mind. 

Though it's really only been a few days since he's experienced what it's like to have Jemma Simmons eagerly work her lips against his, the chasm that had grown between them in the interim makes this reintroduction feel as though it's been years in the making. While there's probably a few conversations that still need to be had, Fitz is happy to pencil them in for some unknown date in the future in favor of feeling Jemma’s hands shift to press against his thudding chest as her mouth ardently moves with his own. 

When oxygen becomes too necessary to ignore, Fitz pulls away with a gasp- keeping his forehead firmly pressed against Jemma’s as he pulls in gulping breaths and grins at the sound of her own labored breathing. 

Opening his eyes, he feels his breath catch when he sees that Jemma’s are already open and fixed on him. The sight brings an immediate smile to his face and he leans forward again to press his lips against hers. She laughs against him when he moves to land kisses against every bit of skin he can access and he feels her own lips press against his throat when he pulls her into a hug. 

“Missed ya.” 

His words are muffled in her shoulder but the tightening of her arms around him makes it clear that Jemma has heard them. 

“Me too. Fitz I… I'm _so_ sorry. What I said the other day, I didn't… I was just…”  

He cuts her off before she can spiral too far down negative-memory-lane, pulling back and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as he gazes down at her. 

“I get it.” 

Tilting her cheek further into his hand, her own fingers moving to fiddle with his collar, Jemma stares at his chest for a long moment before looking up at him and mumbling, “You shouldn't have to. The way I treated you was… unforgivable.” 

“You were upset, and part of the reason you were upset _was_ because of me. You asked me for a few days of space and I ignored you.” 

She nods her head slowly at that, biting her lip in contemplation, and Fitz can practically _see_ the cogs working in Jemma’s brain as she tries to parse out how at fault each of them are for the events earlier in the week. After a few seconds, she pulls a deep breath before letting it out in a sigh and saying, “Yes but… that's really no excuse for my behavior. I was _wretched_ to you Fitz and I just...” 

“Jemma, you were angry, and sad, and probably _very_ disappointed. I know how hard you worked to win and I know how much it hurt when you lost. We both said and did things that we probably wish we hadn't but… it's done. You and me, we’re good.”  

She looks at him for a long moment, eyes flitting across his face before a slow smile makes its way across hers. Leaning forward, she places a languid kiss on his lips before pulling away and murmuring, “Better than.” 

She pauses for a moment, eyes flitting across his face once more, and Fitz can tell that there's more to be said. He waits silently, fingers toying with the hem of Jemma’s shirt where they're resting at her waist, until she continues. “Watching you at the airport… I realized that I’d pretty much become the person my parents wanted me to be. Only concerned with winning… only focused on the next competition. You reminded me that I play tennis because I _love_ it. Win or lose I love this game for what it is and how it makes me _feel_ and I think… I lost sight of that. I got so wrapped up in the final result that I forgot to enjoy the process.”  

She pauses again, her contemplative expression shifting into one of determination as her eyes move from his chest to meet his own. “I'm quite certain that I need you Fitz. Because every second I'm with you I'm reminded that there are things and people in my life that I care more about, _love_ more, than winning… and you're one of them.”  

He finds himself at a loss for words, overwhelmed by Jemma’s declaration, and has to blink a few times to clear the dampness from his eyes. The softness in her expression makes it clear that she knows just how much her words have impacted him, how desperately he's been longing to hear some version of them. He himself is at a loss for how to respond, too stunned an emotional to let out anything other than a soft sigh and watery smile, but Jemma thankfully seems to read him as well in this moment as she always seems to. Scratching her nails against the short hairs at the base of his neck, and causing him to shiver as she does, Jemma gives him an excited grin as she waggles her eyebrows in a fashion so ridiculous that it would probably be headline news in the London tabloids for at least a week. 

“Besides, if _I_ can't win Wimbledon... my boyfriend winning is the next best thing.”  

As elated he still is by Jemma’s profession of love and casual use of the word  _ boyfriend,  _ the rest of her statement brings forth another knot of anxiety. Because, the fact is that it's unlikely that even  _ the next best thing  _ will happen. He’s already down two sets, dropped his serve in the first  _ game _ of this one, and is unlikely to make a comeback-  _ especially  _ after however long they'll have to wait for the match to resume.

Rubbing nervously at his neck, Fitz glances at Jemma in question while mumbling, “And if your boyfriend _doesn't_ win… will he… will he still get to _be_ your boyfriend?” 

As his gaze is focused pointedly at his shoes, Fitz doesn't see Jemma’s hand so much as he _feels_ it when she thwacks him on the shoulder. Looking up, he catches her expression, a combination of hurt, annoyance, and perhaps a bit of anger, as she says, “ _Honestly_ , Fitz!” 

Hastily moving forward, Fitz slowly pries Jemma’s hands from where they're crossed angrily over her chest so that he can lace his fingers through hers and rectify his latest  It of word vomit. “Sorry, sorry. Will had said something earlier about the kind of blokes you go for and he just got in my hea…” 

“Will is an utter moron and the _only_ reason I slept with him is because he had a low body fat percentage and I wanted to piss off May.”  

Fitz can't help but let out a snort at that, easily picturing an irritated Jemma suffering through someone as boring as Will Daniels for the sole purpose of irritating her coach, and gives her another apologetic look as his thumb moves across the soft skin of her hand. 

“M’sorry. You basing your relationships on career performances is a ridiculous and insulting thing to suggest and I'm sorry for thinking it was even remotely a possibility. I know he was just trying to get in my head.” 

Rolling her eyes, Jemma’s grip on his hands tightens and she wrinkles her nose at his statement. “First of all, if _that’s_ what Will implied then he’d do well to remember that he wasn't even in the top ten when we got together so that wouldn't be _remotely_ helpful to me and second of all…”  

She pauses for a moment, sucking in a breath as her eyes rove over his face while her fingers move to gently scratch through the stubble on his cheeks, and Fitz can _feel_ that whatever she says next will be important. His reignited nerves must be plain as day in his face because Jemma gives him a soft smile, her thumb grazing over his lower lip, and looks directly in his eyes as she continues. 

“I didn't fall for you because you're a great tennis player. I fell for you because you're a kind, awkward, _brilliant_ man who gave a little girl and her family passes to every match at Wimbledon, started playing tennis for the sole purpose of helping your mum, and makes every decision out of the goodness of your heart.” 

Said heart is now thudding beneath her palm where it's resting on his chest and Fitz doesn't even think before moving forward and pressing his mouth to Jemma’s once again. She more than anyone knows how to leave him speechless, unable to articulate how much her own words mean to him, so he lets his mouth explain through different means. He cradles Jemma’s face in his hands as his tongue caresses hers and lips move fervidly against her. 

When they break apart, Fitz skims his nose across Jemma’s cheek before letting his forehead rest against hers. Her fingers toy with the hairs at the nape of his neck before she moves to run one along his cheek. His eyes flutter closed at the gentleness of the gesture before snapping open when he feels a firm poke to his chest. 

Pulling back to get a better look at her, Fitz glances down at Jemma in surprise when he sees the borderline _stern_ expression on her face. When she sees that she’s caught his full attention, she gives him a pinch on the hip and says, “That being said… I _know_ you're better than whatever life-model-decoy version of yourself has been playing today. What the hell is going on?”  

Letting out a small groan, Fitz lets his head fall to Jemma’s shoulder and revels in the feeling of her fingers immediately moving to card through his hair before responding. “I dunno. My back is killing me, Will hasn't missed a shot, and I guess I've just been distracted.”  

He picks his head up to shoot Jemma a droll look at her audible scoff, silently reminding her of her _own_ blame of _distractions_ for her last performance, before shutting his eyes and rubbing his hands over his face. “And even if I weren't, it wouldn't matter. I’m already two sets down and he’s too good.” 

Tugging his hands from his face and placing hers firmly on his cheeks to force him to meet her gaze, Jemma looks up at him earnestly and says, “Fitz, you're _better._ When will you realize that?! Will is brute strength, but that's _all_ he is. That's _never_ been how you play the game.”  

Groaning again, Fitz pulls himself away and begins pacing in the small space between the lockers, growing increasingly vexed and gesticulating wildly as he considers Jemma’s statement. “I know! Plus he has a _shite_ backhand. If I could return a bloody serve I might at least win a _point_ but… I can't even get my racquet on it, it's too good Jem. I can't keep up.” 

“That's where I come in.” 

Fitz lets out a startled yelp at the sound of a third voice, whipping around with his hand pressed against his chest and feeling his mouth drop open at the sight of Melinda May leaning casually against the lockers.  

“Jesus… wh… how long have you been in here?!” 

He glances over at Jemma, waiting to see if May’s sudden appearance will once again send her into a panic, and feels his mouth widen when she seems entirely unsurprised that her coach is a few feet away. At his confused look, Jemma simply shrugs and replies, “She drove.” 

Feeling every bit the fish out of water, Fitz glances between the two women in astonishment before plonking down on the bench. While Jemma seems positively ecstatic by this turn of events, May remains stoic as ever and Fitz stares at her for a few long moments in an attempt to read her. He assumes, based on her ninja-like entrance, that she’s here for a reason and waits for her to expand on her previous comment. When she makes no move to do so, Fitz lets out a small cough and nervously scratches at his ear. 

“Okay… wh… _where_ exactly do you come in?” 

Moving further into the section of lockers, May comes to a halt beside Jemma, crossing her arms over her chest and looking down at him with her standard impassive expression. 

“Daniels is easier to read than a set of IKEA instructions.” 

The statement causes a new round of panic for him. Though utterly confused by her presence, Fitz had been mostly _comforted_ by the sight of May- thinking that her willingness to serve as a placement coach would only serve to help him. _Now_ he thinks that he might have gotten his hopes up too high, too quickly. Glancing at her in stupification, Fitz hears his voice raise in pitch as he says, “That… are you being serious right now? IKEA instructions are notoriously _impossible_ to re… wh… you’re smiling...”  

“It was a joke, Fitz. I was making a joke.” 

Not entirely sure what to make of the situation, Fitz glances over at Jemma in question, hoping that she might be able to help him navigate this new territory. Her own brows are raised when she meets his gaze and shakes her head. “Don't look at me! _I've_ never heard her make one before.” 

Letting out a sigh, May snaps her fingers to re-catch their attention and nods at her protégé while keeping her eyes firmly affixed on him. “Jemma was right. Daniels’ biggest and _only_ asset is his power. He's a strong player but he isn't a _smart_ player. You are and _that_ is how you're going to win.” 

Looking at her in question, Fitz tries to piece together May’s words before ultimately deciding that having her simply explain them to him will make things go far more smoothly. “What do you mean?” 

Moving closer, May pierces him with a stare and questions, “Whenever Will hits a slice, what does he do just before the toss?” 

Blinking in confusion, Fitz chances a glance at Jemma and finds himself even _more_ bewildered when he sees an expression that he can only describe as dawning realization on her face. Not sure what it is that she seems to have caught onto, Fitz turns back to May and says, “ _What_?”  

Looking at him as though he’s a small child, May stares him down before repeating herself. “What does he do just before the toss. _Think.”_  

“He…” Fitz pauses for a moment to think before his eyes widen as his mind catalogs the moments before each of the slice serves Will wailed in his direction. “He adjusts his shirt, he… he tugs at the collar.” 

Looking up at May in astonishment, Fitz catches the slightest of smirks on her face before she further prods, “And when he bounces the ball four times?” 

Thinking for a moment as he reflects back, Fitz blinks as he realizes that _every, single, time_ Will bounces the ball four times, his serve is... 

“Top-spin to the corner.” 

May’s lips grow even more upturned and she nods her head in approval. “And when he shows you the sole of his shoe during the toss?” 

It only takes a few seconds for Fitz to visualize the gesture as well as the serve that it telegraphs and he feels the urge to smack himself in the head. “He's aiming for the body.”  

He pauses for another moment as everything sinks in and leaps up from the bench as he realizes what an utterly oblivious knob he’s been. Shifting his gaze from May, Fitz stares at Jemma as dawning comprehension descends on him. “Jesus, _everything_...”  

Jemma nods at him, a slow grin making its way across her face as she finishes his thought, “Everything he does is a tell.” 

He looks at her in stunned shock before jumping slightly at the feeling of a hand resting on his shoulder. Turning forward again, he’s met with the sight of May standing before him. He blinks in surprise, both at her proximity as well as the storm of emotion behind her eyes, and swallows nervously as her hand squeezes his shoulder. 

“Use your brain and _play the game,_ Fitz.”  

The words seem to light a flare within him as he realizes just what they mean.  

May and Jemma, of course, are entirely accurate in their description of both himself and Will as tennis players. For the entirety of his career, he has been compared to those larger and stronger than himself, and for the entirety of his career, he has made it his mission to use his head to prevail. The various players, commentators, friends, and family who have so often accused him of playing with his heart, though not entirely incorrect, failed to realize (just as he has) that, for him, heart and head are one and the same where this sport is concerned. 

Squaring his shoulders, Fitz nods his head at May, glancing over to catch sight of the beaming smile Jemma is now sporting, before feeling a smile of his own work its way across his face. 

“ _That,_ I can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two to go! Let's hope they're done in time... ;)


	30. Final Showdown

Walking through the tunnel and onto the court for the second time that day, Fitz finds that the energy thrumming beneath his skin is no longer of the nervous variety.

The reunion with Jemma, combined with May’s pointers, has filled him with a newfound confidence that has reignited his desire to _win._ Not a point or a game but the entire damn match.

Much of his time playing tennis has been spent considering his opponents to be undefeatable forces. He’s often been too insecure to remember that, in actuality, the game is far more reliant on brains than brawn. Will in particular seems to have caused him to ignore the fact that strategy is infinitely more powerful a weapon than how hard he can hit a ball over a net, and Fitz finds himself utterly motivated by the reminder. After all, at the end of the day, Daniels is an opponent no different than Trip or Watson or any of the other players he’s defeated over the course of his career.

He used his brain to beat his friend, he used his brain to beat England’s golden boy, and now he’s going to use it to beat Will Daniels.

Spinning his racquet in his hands, Fitz unceremoniously drops the rest of his equipment beside his chair and cricks his neck to the side. He intentionally avoids acknowledging Will, keeping his eyes firmly affixed in front of him as he quickly completes a few warm up stretches before the umpire’s voice rings out over the speakers.

“Let’s resume. The score is forty-fifteen. Daniels’ serve.”

Making his way to the side of the court he'd been on prior to the rain delay, Fitz catches sight of his mum and gives her a quick smile that he pairs with a thumbs up. She looks momentarily stunned by the gesture, no doubt expecting a somber version of him considering the circumstances, but in the next second she's returning his faint uptick of lips with her own beaming smile.

The sight makes him grin and, as Fitz crouches on the baseline, it only widens as he counts the number of times that Will lets the ball bounce against the court.

_One. Two. Three and… Bingo._

Taking a calculated step backwards as Will tosses the ball in the air, Fitz only has to wait a few seconds before shifting his body and returning the serve with ease, smacking a forehand in the far corner of the court and watching with a triumphant smirk as Will stares in shock when the ball passes him by.

The crowd bursts into applause and the energy in the stadium feels almost tangible as Fitz feigns as much nonchalance as he can over his sudden ability to _return_ Will’s serve rather than barely deflect it. Making his way to the other end in preparation for the next serve, he makes eye contact with Will across the court and can’t help but raise his brows in challenge.

_Not so hot without your one move, are you?_

The scowl that he receives in response only makes Fitz’s smile grow as he crouches down again and bounces on the balls of his feet. The sight of a visibly rattled Will is as satisfying as Fitz expected it would be and the visual of the other man tugging at his collar makes him certain that it'll be even _better_ when he wins more than just a point.

He watches the arc of the ball as it flies in his direction, moving exactly where he needs to be in order to whack a backhand down the line. Will isn't quite as unprepared as the last shot, actually moving quickly enough to get his racquet on the ball, but still can't manage to hit his return over the net and Fitz grins again as the ball rolls along the court.

“Forty-all.”

The score prompts another burst of wild cheers and the sound causes a pleasurable warmth to flood his system. Spinning his racquet in his hands, Fitz waits at the baseline, tensing at the toss before relaxing when the ball flies into the net in a fault.

The anger on Will’s face is clear, even from this distance, and Fitz suddenly realizes that his opponent is just as much of a head case as he usually is. Clearly the other man, so accustomed to winning, doesn't respond well when he _loses_. The realization prompts another surge of confidence as Fitz realizes that Will’s spiraling emotions might just be one more thing to use against him.

His eyes zero in on every movement that Will makes as his mind quickly translates it into his own body shifting up and left, easily returning yet another serve as though it's just another day hitting against a feeder. Once again, the crowd’s cheers drown out the sound of his own rapid heartbeat and Fitz does his best to keep his head on straight as he moves to the other end of the court. Keeping his head down and his eyes focused on where his fingers are plucking at the strings of his racquet, he rolls his shoulders before crouching down and staring down the line at Will. Stiffening slightly at the sight of his opponent tossing the ball into the air, Fitz bounces on the balls of his feet in preparation to shift forward before stilling when the small projectile flies into the net instead. Standing briefly while a visibly agitated Will motions for one of the standing ball-boys to toss him a new one, Fitz does his utmost to ignore the the mantra that is now playing on a loop in his mind.

_One more. One more point. Just one more and the game is yours._

Watching carefully as Will goes through the motions of his second serve, Fitz notes that he should expect a basic topspin to center-box. Taking a blatant step forward, he shifts his grip on his racquet as Daniels once again makes the toss…

And whacks it into the net.

Straightening, Fitz blinks in shock at the sight of the ball rolling away from the net before shifting his eyes to the scoreboard just as it changes to show that he’s just _won_ a game. More surprising is the fact that the crowd seems to have done away with decorum and is now cheering wildly at Daniels’ double-fault. Will slamming his racquet on the ground and breaking the frame against the grass seems evidence enough that he’s none-too-pleased by the turn of events and Fitz lets a stunned smile bloom across his face as the adrenaline of _winning_ begins to work its way into his system.

After that, it’s as though he enters a fugue state, his mind focused only on taking advantage of the tells he knows and cataloguing any new ones that arise. With each point he wins, the energy of the crowd grows while Will continues to break.

Fitz wins point after point, game after game, until the score is actually in _his_ favor in the fifth and final set.

Guzzling down water between side-changes, Fitz stares in stupefaction at the scoreboard and the bold 5 that is beside his name. It's an invigorating sight to be sure, but it's the 4 next to _W. Daniels_ that has him suddenly realizing that if he wins one more game, if he can hold for just a bit longer, he’ll end his career as a Wimbledon champion.

“Time.”

Rising at the sound of the ump’s voice, Fitz pulls one more gulp of water and quickly runs a towel across his sweaty face and palms before making his way to his side of the court.

Testing the weight and feel of the three tennis balls that are handed to him, Fitz stuffs one in his pocket and tosses another back to the waiting ball girl before bouncing the third against the grass. Satisfied at the speed that it returns to his palm, he shifts towards the baseline and takes a steadying breath. He pauses for a moment, taking in the fact that, if he keeps his focus, this could very well be the last game he’ll ever serve in professional tennis.

Briefly letting his eyes flicker to the stands, where flags are moving and excited Brits are all rooting for him, Fitz lets himself feel _confident_ as he bounces the ball against the court, catches it in his hand, and prepares to serve.

Tossing the ball into the air, Fitz lets his body move on instinct and watches as his racquet hits _just_ the right spot to send a textbook slice into the corner of the service box. Will’s return is quick but Fitz is ready and waiting to send his own back over the net. It only takes a few carefully placed shots before he’s gingerly tapping the ball over the net while Will is standing deep at the baseline. The other man is so gargantuan that Fitz briefly worries that he might actually reach the ball in time and he feels a flicker of relief when it bounces for a second time before Will gets his racquet on it.

The reaction of the crowd is immediate, instant cheering paired with excited applause, and Fitz briefly revels in it before returning his focus to the point ahead. Gratefully accepting the ball proffered by the young girl waiting at the baseline, Fitz smiles and murmurs, “Just need the one,” while patting the other still sitting in his pocket. She nods with a grin before backing away and getting into position along the back wall as Fitz toes the baseline. Giving the ball one solid bounce, he does his utmost to drown out the noise surrounding him until all he can focus on is the rapid thump of his beating heart.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Fitz moves his left hand up and watches the ball leave his fingertips as his right arm drops down before quickly reversing as his racquet cuts through the air and makes contact with the ball as gravity does its job and pulls it towards the ground.

The ball lands in the exact corner he’d been aiming for and, in the brief moments before Will makes his return, Fitz thinks back to those first days of practice where he’d barely been able to graze the cans he’d so meticulously lined up.

_Now you’re serving in the bloody finals._

The cross-court shot that Will delivers snaps Fitz out of his wondrous musings and he quickly shifts to send a backhand in the other direction. He doesn’t have long to get back to the center of the court, Will immediately tapping a drop-shot that has Fitz scrambling forward to get his racquet on it in time. He just _barely_ manages to and knows before his shot even passes the net what Will’s next move will be. The forward momentum that the last shot forced has left him _just_ unbalanced enough that there are only two, truly, logical shots that Will might make and Fitz follows his gut, hastily moving backwards in preparation for a lob while silently praying that Will doesn’t opt for a hard shot down the alley.

By some miracle, his instinct was correct and Will sends his return arcing through the air with a lob shot that has Fitz squinting at the sun. Though half blinded looking at a literal ball of fire, he can clock Will in his periphery and can tell that the other man has no expectation that Fitz will actually manage to return the shot. A fact that, though mildly irritating, makes it that much easier to figure out where to _place_ it.

Keeping his eye on the ball as it falls to the ground, Fitz waits with a finger to the sky and an elbow by his ear until it reaches the exact spot for him to successfully smack it midair and send it rocketing back over the net in the opposite corner that Will is standing in.

Even if the other man _weren’t_ an overconfident arse and had at least _prepared_ for the possibility that Fitz would actually return his shot, there’s no way he would have gotten his racquet on the ball. The force and angle at which Fitz had hit the ball means that, the moment it hits the ground, it shoots off and into the back wall within a millisecond.

“Yes! _C’mon!”_

Fitz’s exclamation is paired with a fist pump that causes the crowd to once again go wild. He’s never quite experienced something like this before, a stadium full of people who seem directly linked to him. With each point won and victorious shout, the crowd responds with their own applause and cheers. It’s a genuine give-and-take that Fitz finds addictive and fills him with a confidence and motivation that makes a win feel that much more plausible.

Giving another, _marginally,_ more subtle fist-pump, Fitz makes his way back to the waiting ball-girl and plucks two balls from her outstretched hand. Rolling them for a second, he pockets one while bouncing the other against the strings of his racquet as he makes his way to the baseline and returns his focus to the point ahead.

There’s a fine line between being confident and _over-_ confident, and Fitz has no intention of letting the current score get to his head. Each point is pivotal and he knows from experience that a match can change course with the drop of a hat. So, when the umpire’s voice rings out through the stadium and announces, “Thirty-love,” he pulls in a breath and ignores the score in favor of feeling each of the individual pieces of nylon covering the ball in his hand.

The tangible feeling of the soft fuzz at his fingertips is grounding enough that Fitz is able to block out everything surrounding him as he makes the toss and whips his racquet over his head with more force than he usually allows himself. He watches as the ball flies towards the net, just brushing the top of it on its way to the service box, and is unsurprised when the call echoes through the stadium.

“Let!”

Rolling his shoulders, Fitz pulls the second ball from his pocket and bounces it against the grass a few times before breathing through his nose and tossing it in the air. It seems to rise and fall in slow motion and the moment Fitz’s racquet makes contact with it, he _knows_ that Will won’t be returning this serve. It’s a rarity in tennis to have such certainty but the torque he manages to get on the ball sends it ricocheting to the corner of the service box while the slice he’d put on it promptly causes it to shift direction once coming in contact with the grass and, sure enough, Will barely gets his racquet on it enough to send it into the net.

Clenching his fingers into another fist, Fitz grins at the crowd and takes a few measured breaths as he catches the ball that is tossed to him and moves to stand at the center mark.

“Forty-love. Match point.”

_Match point. Holy shite. One more. One more point. Just one more point and you’ve won Wimbledon. Bloody hell. Wimbledon!_

Sucking in a calming breath, Fitz shuts his eyes for a few long moments as he simultaneously tries to savor the moment and block out absolutely everything in it. Despite the calming breaths, it’s difficult to taper the excitement that is now flooding through his system at the prospect of winning _the_ Grand Slam.

_Just need_ _one more point._

Opening his eyes at the reminder that he hasn’t won the match yet, Fitz drops the ball against the grass three times before tossing it into the air. He gets his racquet on it but feels almost immediately that the ball won’t be landing quite how he’d intended. Sure enough, when it hits the center of the service box on the other side of the court, it’s a flat shot with minimal spin that Will is easily able to return.

It’s a cross-court shot that has Fitz sprinting to the other side and, after that, a marathon rally begins. He hits a forehand, Will hits a backhand, he hits a slice, Will hits a topspin. They hit return after return, shot after shot, until Fitz finds himself growing impatient. At some point both he and Will had given up on strategy and allowed their bodies to take over, likely hoping the other would tire out and muck up first, and Fitz decides that it’s high time he let his mind get back in the game.

Switching things up, rather than another groundstroke down the line, Fitz hits a short drop shot that forces Will forward. Unfortunately, Fitz’s instinct isn’t quite as accurate this time around and, rather than going full force, Will hits a drop shot of his own.

It’s the same shot that landed him on his back a few sets prior but Fitz is able to maintain his footing this time around as he sprints forward with everything he has to beat the second bounce. Flicking his wrist, he manages to catch the ball and send it past Will where he’s waiting at the net and holds his breath as it falls to the ground on the single’s line. He catches sight of the telltale puff of white powder and feels his heart all but explode in his chest in time with the cheers from the crowd. Taking a few measured steps towards the net, Fitz feels a disbelieving smile begin to grow on his face as he registers what has just happened.

“Out!”

With one word his elation shifts to shock and Fitz turns in bafflement to the line umpire. Sure enough, her hand is extended to her side in visual representation of her call. His mouth drops open in disbelief at the sight and he feels frozen to the spot until the stunned silence in the stadium is broken by a shouted, “Are you _blind_?!”

The crowd-member’s question (sounding suspiciously like Hunter) spurns him into action and it only takes a few strides before Fitz is standing in front of the chair ump with his finger jabbing in the direction of where his shot had landed.

“The ball was _in.”_

“As it was in a blind spot, I'm going to have to defer to the line umpire.”

The answer only causes his frustration to grow and Fitz feels his hand fly to tug at his hair as he meets the umpire’s gaze with astonishment. “That's bollocks! The ball was _in._ Chalk flew, we all bloody saw it!”

“The call stands Mr. Fitz.”

“That's _rubbish._ It was a shite call!”

“Warning.”

“Oh for Christ…”

“ _Mr. Fitz._ ”

The umpire gives him a stern look and Fitz snaps his mouth shut before he can finish his sentence. Pulling in a sharp breath through his nose, he narrows his eyes infinitesimally and mentally shouts all of the things that would likely get him kicked off the court.

Not that he _should_ be considering he was just robbed of the Wimbledon title and is entitled to let out every damn curse in the English language.

He waits for a moment, staring unblinkingly at the umpire, before it becomes clear that nothing will be done. The point has gone to Will and neither game, set, nor match is over. Gritting his teeth and holding his racquet in a death grip, Fitz gives a sharp nod before whirling around and stomping back to the baseline.

An absolutely miniscule part of him feels a bit guilty for throwing what is the adult version of a temper tantrum, but the shouts and booing directed from the crowd to Court 1’s umpires makes him feel better about his atypical reaction. The fact that everyone in the stadium seems just as astonished by that call as he is makes him feel a bit more justified in cursing under his breath and using his body language to make it abundantly clear that he is _pissed._

He catches sight of Daisy and Hunter standing in their seats, hands cupped around their mouths as they jeer along with the rest of the crowd, and it brings the smallest of twitches to his lips but isn't quite enough to rid him of his sour mood. His mother, Trip, and Bobbi tugging at the other two to try and get them to sit down _does_ actually manage to  wipe the scowl from his face. While their embarrassment over Hunter and Daisy’s antics is clear, Fitz can tell that they are just as displeased by the turn of events and it makes him feel less crazy for feeling furious.

He wonders briefly if Jemma is yelling amidst the throngs of people and further confirming that she has no trouble calling out terrible calls and the shite umpires who make them.

“Quiet please.”

Fitz pulls in a calming breath as the shouting turns into muffled whispers of discontent and attempts to clear his mind long enough to win Wimbledon… _again._

Of course, the sound of the ump announcing, “Forty-fifteen,” only causes his anger to flare once more and he bounces the ball against the court with a bit more force than strictly necessary. Letting out a huff of frustration, he glares at Will for a second before tossing the ball into the air, slamming his racquet against it… and watching as it flies straight into the net.

Gritting his teeth in exasperation, Fitz clenches the fist that isn't already wrapped around his racquet and stares at the ball as it rolls away and is promptly scooped up by a waiting ball girl. He barely registers being handed another ball for his second serve, mind still focused on the last point rather than the current one.

_Bloody bullshit._

Tossing the ball into the air without any thought, Fitz whacks it from the sky and feels the frustration double when it sails past the service box and lands a half meter out.

_Double-fault._

The murmuring of the crowd is deafening to him and Fitz has no doubt that the packed stadium is questioning whether they're about to witness a backslide. Any other year, any other time in his life, Fitz would have wondered the same thing (to the point where he’d fall so deep into the rabbit hole that he _would_ choke) but today the double-fault only bolsters him.

_Get it together man. That point is over. Focus on the next one._

The voice in his head sound suspiciously like a combination of all the people currently sitting in his friends and family box (plus a few more that he hasn't spotted since departing the locker room) and snaps him out of his bitter mood.

Shitty call or not, it had been made and the match has moved on. He's worked too hard and come too far to let his bitterness cause him to blow it now.

Pulling in another calming breath, Fitz plucks a ball from the waiting ball girl and blinks in confusion when she pulls her hand away before he can take a second. He opens his mouth to question the move but finds himself silenced by the conspiratorial look she shoots him. She gives him a quick smile, paired with a firm nod of the head, and softly murmurs, “Just need the one,” before scurrying back to the wall.

He looks after her for a long moment before realizing that a beaming grin is now on his face. Glancing down at the lone tennis ball in his hand, he tosses it into the air rather than bouncing it against the grass and feels his smile widen when it lands with a smack in his palm.

Getting into position along the baseline, he takes note of where Will is positioned on the opposite end of the court to figure out the best serve to send over the net. The other man is standing cockily a metre into the box and the sight rankles Fitz enough that, for one of the few times in his life, he opts for power over strategy. Narrowing his eyes as he stares across the court, Fitz waits until Daniels meets his gaze before tossing the ball into the air and landing his racquet against it with as much force as he can muster.

It’s a solid serve but the past two points seem to have bolstered Will’s confidence and he hits a clean groundstroke in return that sends Fitz scrambling to the right. He manages a cross-court forehand, perhaps a bit flatter than he’d like but still solidly placed, and quickly shuffles back to the center of the baseline in preparation for Will’s next shot. The other man hits another groundstroke that this time sends Fitz sprinting to the left, managing a slice backhand before shifting back once again.

Will seems to make it his mission to make Fitz run, placing one shot on the forehand line and the next on the backhand line and continuing with the pattern until Fitz feels as though sharp knives are sliding along his throat with each breath he takes. After barely getting his racquet on the ball for the fourth time in a row, Fitz lets out a frustrated shout and, instead of moving back to the center of the baseline, sprints forward instead. He smacks Will’s next shot out of the air as a volley and hovers at the net in preparation for the next. While the move is risky considering the angles that Will has been hitting, Fitz is hoping that the brazenness will draw out Daniels’ penchant for physical force over actual strategy. When the next shot comes rocketing towards his head rather than down either alley, Fitz knows that his gamble to get a rise out of Will has paid off.

_Pissing off the opponent. Never fails._

He deflects the shot with relative ease, his hand vibrating with the reverb of the ball hitting the racquet, and carefully angles his return so that Will is forced to move forward. Daniels’ next shot comes just as hard and just as fast in his direction but Fitz blocks this one as well and hits it so that Will moves closer still. It’s a back-and-forth, Will hitting the ball harder and harder in his direction while Fitz draws him closer until the other man is exactly where he wants him to be: no man’s land.

He knows that he has to play the next few shots carefully, keep Will in place without mucking things up on his end, and is gambling it all under the assumption that Daniels will continue to wail his shots at him rather than actually _place_ them. It’s a risk but Fitz carries on, all but feeding Will as he hits each ball directly where the other man can thwack it back in his direction.

He keeps at it until he senses Will growing restless and, after hitting the same shot for the umpteenth time, Fitz quickly pivots backwards. He takes a few long strides, neck cricking as he keeps his focus on the ball, before coming to a halt when Will makes contact with it.

_Please work. Please, please, work._

By some miracle, Will hits the same shot as before, hard and flat with no spin at all, and _this time,_ rather than merely blocking it as a volley, Fitz is able to make contact with a mid-air forehand. The combination of his own force and the fact that he’s able to hit it prior to it losing momentum on the bounce means that his return feels like a shot from a gun.

If his maths were correct, and his plan to pull Will _just_ forward enough was successful, that should mean that...

He watches in slow motion as the ball flies by Will’s outstretched arm and lands cleanly in the center of the court, bouncing once before ricocheting to the back wall with an audible thud.

His mouth drops open as his racquet falls from his hand to the grass and the thudding in his ears grows deafening as the crowd leaps to their feet and begins to cheer. Falling to his knees, Fitz feels the tears begin to build in his eyes as he cards his fingers through his hair in disbelief. A laugh breaks free as he registers the sound of his name being chanted by literal _thousands_ of people and he shakes his head in stunned astonishment as his mind processes the fact that _he's done it._

_He’s just won Wimbledon._

Shakily rising to his feet, Fitz hastily wipes at his face before making his way over to Will and shaking the other player’s hand. Too stunned and elated to even register the _firmness_ of the handshake, Fitz moves away the moment Will drops his hand. Walking to the chair ump in a daze, he shakes the older man’s hand before catching sight of the young boy who’d been on the receiving end of Will’s serve. Jogging up to him, Fitz hands the boy his racquet with a grin, shaking the third hand in a minute and waving off Donnie’s awed, “Thank you,” before making his way back to the center of the court and raising his hand in acknowledgement of the crowd.

The applause is absolutely thunderous, the spectators cheering and stomping their feet in victory, and Fitz feels a fresh wave of tears at the ecstatic support being aimed at him. As he does a slow turn, grinning and crying in every direction, he catches sight of his family and friends where they're corralled in the player’s section jumping and clapping in enthusiasm.

Without even thinking, Fitz runs to them, using a nearby chair to clamber up the wall and into the box, and immediately finds himself engulfed in a group hug that only causes him to cry harder. Pulling away, Fitz is greeted by the teary eyes of his excited friends. He doesn't get to see them for long though because in the next moment he's being pulled into another hug, this time just his mother’s arms are wrapped around him. Much like he had as a young child, Fitz cries and laughs into the crook of her neck as she whispers, “My boy, oh my wonderful Leo.”

“I did it, I really did it!”

Pulling back, she gives him a fond pat on the cheek while tearfully saying, “Of _course_ you did.”

Still in awe over her unbreakable confidence in him, Fitz pulls his mum into another tight hug while grinning at his friends over her shoulder. Bobbi’s eyes are shining with unshed tears, Hunter nudging her with a smile that is simultaneously teasing and proud, Daisy is tucked under Trip’s arm, both of them positively beaming at him. He catches sight of Margaret and who he assumes are the rest of her family members where they're tucked in the corner of the box, cheering enthusiastically while respecting the family moment, and then does a double-take when he spots May standing on the other side of Daisy.

When he catches her eye, she gives him a nod and the closest thing to a smile that Fitz has ever seen.

Pulling away from his mother once again, Fitz takes in the sight of his loved ones and can't help but notice that someone is missing. Feeling a small spark of anxiety at Jemma’s absence, he turns to her coach in question. “Where’s…”

May gives a small nod towards the stands and wryly states, “She didn't want to draw too much attention to herself, worried she might be a _distraction_ for you.”

The words, combined with the faint uptick of May’s lips, pulls a laugh from Fitz and he quickly looks at the faces of his mother and friends as he jerks his thumb in the general direction of the stands and says, “I'm just gonna…”

Before he even finishes his sentence, Fitz is met with a chorus of, “Go!” as everyone moves forward to push him towards the divider. Not needing to be told twice, Fitz promptly hops over the short barricade separating the private box from the general seats and begins making his way towards the stairwell.

He feels a dozen pats on the back as he squeezes past excited fans but is too focused on making it to the stairs to do anything other than smile dazedly. When he finally makes it to the open gap in the stadium, he looks up and spots exactly who he's searching for a few flights above. The sight pulls an immediate grin from him and he begins moving again as new swarms of people begin to cheer as he passes.

Sprinting up the stairs two at a time, it only takes seconds for Fitz to make it to the upper level where a beaming Jemma is waiting in the aisle. When he’s finally in her orbit, she opens her mouth as if about to congratulate him but, done wasting time, Fitz pulls her into his arms and presses his lips to hers before she can make a sound.

Jemma immediately rises to slot her mouth more firmly against his, winding her arms around his neck as his move to her waist, and Fitz can’t help but think that _this_ is the real victory. Lifting her off the ground, Fitz spins Jemma around in delight and lets the onslaught of emotions surround him as her tongue presses against his. He faintly registers the volume of the crowd somehow growing _louder_ but is too focused on the feeling of Jemma smiling against his lips to fully acknowledge it.

The adrenaline rush of winning Wimbledon is nothing compared to the one he gets as Jemma’s mouth molds against his own and Fitz finds all of his senses zeroing in on the feeling. The taste of her lips, the rapid staccato of his heart as it thumps against his chest, the smell of grass and sweat, the feel of her as he holds her in his arms.

Finally pulling away to catch his breath, Fitz lets his eyelids slowly flutter open and is greeted by the sight of Jemma’s own honey-brown eyes staring back at him. For a moment, the exuberant smile on her face and golden freckles adorning her nose are all he’s able to register but it only takes a few seconds before everything else seems to slam into him at once. Blinking in surprise as he listens to the thunderous applause, Fitz can just barely hear Jemma’s melodic laughter over the hoots and hollers of the crowd.

Pivoting slightly, he glances around the stadium in awe and sees each of the 15,000 people crammed in it with their eyes on him. He feels his cheeks grow pink as he processes the fact that he’s just had a proper snog with the most famous player in the world in front of all of them (plus the millions of people watching on the telly) and ducks his head to hide in embarrassment. It only takes a second before his mortification is replaced with a warmth as his eyes focus on where Jemma’s fingers are laced through his own.

Grinning at the sight, Fitz lifts his head once more and feels his smile grow at the fondness etched into Jemma’s face. Pulling one hand from his, she moves her fingers to brush back the sweaty curl plastered to his forehead and takes a step closer. Smiling affectionately up at him, she shifts her fingers to play with the short hairs at the back of his neck as she softly says, “Nicely done Fitz, Leo Fitz.”

Smiling bashfully at her words, Fitz shakes his head in disbelief and says, “Who would have thought that the unranked wildcard from Glasgow could actually win?”

Jemma’s smile somehow softens even more at his words, eyes roving over his face before locking on his own as she murmurs, “Me.”

The sincerity in her expression floors him and he can’t help but stare in wonder, tugging her closer still as her smile grows. “And _them._ ” She tilts her head in the direction of the crowd before standing on her toes and placing a soft kiss to his mouth that has him chasing after her lips when she pulls away all too soon. Ruffling his hair affectionately, Jemma shifts her hands to futz with the collar of his polo and gives him a playful pat on the chest before once again nodding towards the cheering fans behind him and saying, “You have a rather shiny cup to claim Fitz.”

Shaking his head, Fitz loops his arms around Jemma’s waist, leaning forward to press his own gentle kiss to her lips before pulling just far enough away to murmur, “I’d rather stay here.”

The response pulls a laugh from Jemma and she rolls her eyes in exasperation while chastising, “ _Fitz._ ”

Responding with wiggling eyebrows and, “ _Jemma,_ ” he can’t help but release a laugh of his own as Jemma mumbles, “Unbelievable,” before tugging on his hand and leading him back down the stadium through the throngs of people that are still cheering wildly. He feels his smile grow as they clamber down the stairs, nodding appreciatively at the back slaps, blushing wildly at the wolf whistles and shouts of _FitzSimmons,_ and keeping his fingers firmly entwined through Jemma’s with each step they take.

Soon enough, they’re back in the friends and family box and just as quickly Jemma is turning to place a smacking kiss on his lips before all but bodily shoving him back towards the barrier. When he makes a show of putting up resistance, Jemma turns to face their friends before she meets his mother’s gaze. The conspiratorial twin smiles that break out over their faces makes it instantly clear that his future will be spent being ganged up on, which is only confirmed when, in the next second, his mother is joining Jemma in pushing him back towards the court. He lets out a chuff of laughter at the, “Lovely to finally meet you Mrs. Fitz,” and responding, “Oh likewise dear,” before sparing them any more work and moving to the wall himself.

Pausing for a moment, he looks back at the ragtag group of people who have seen him at his lowest and pushed him to his highest, and feels his heart constrict in his chest at the sight. He finds himself becoming choked up and blinks rapidly at their smiling faces to keep himself in check. His mum, arm now linked through Jemma’s as though they’ve known each other for years, looks prouder than he can ever remember as she encourages, “Go on Leo.”

Nodding his head and giving the group a shaky smile, Fitz turns around and clambers back over the short wall, dropping onto the court with ease before making his way towards where the officials have now gathered at the net. Pulling in a deep breath, Fitz goes through the line of big-wigs, shaking each proffered hand and murmuring his thanks as they praise him for a match well-played.

Finally making it to the end of the line, Fitz isn’t surprised to find that _Will’s_ hands are firmly pressed against his body as his arms are crossed against his chest. Fitz bypasses him with a slight eye roll, not caring in the least about Will’s petulence, and stands in position next to the _runner up_ as the proceedings begin. While the standard speeches are given and the specific sponsors are name-dropped, Fitz lets his gaze rove over the standing crowd.

Reflecting back over the past two weeks, it seems utterly unbelievable that he’s now standing on centre court with a stadium (and _nation_ ) of people chanting his name. Thinking back to where he was just over a fortnight ago, ready to work at a country club and pretty convinced he’d die alone, it’s difficult to process the fact that he’s somehow come out on top in all aspects of his life. His career has ended on the highest note possible and, by some miracle, he’ll be leaving professional tennis with the most coveted trophy in tennis… and the most extraordinary woman he’s ever met.

_Maybe the cosmos aren’t so bad after all._

So lost in thought, Fitz doesn’t realize that the speeches are over and the _exciting_ part of the ceremony has begun until the massive silver cup is being passed to him by one of the officials. He stares at it in astonishment as it’s transferred into his hands, and feels as though he’s left his body as it fully hits him that _he’s just won Wimbledon._ Gaping down as the silver gilt glints in the English sun, Fitz reflects on every doubt and insecurity, every injury and pain, and every sacrifice he’s made since he’d first picked up a tennis racquet as a young boy. As he looks at the empty spot on the cup that will soon be etched with his name, he can’t help but think that, perhaps, it was all worth it.

Hefting the cup above his head, Fitz does his best to keep his tears in check as his gaze zeroes in on his family and friends while the cheers of the stadium serve as the soundtrack of his time as a Wimbledon Champion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of this... let's just pretend that A) this takes place in the early 2000's before the Hawk-Eye replay system was used or B) Fitz already used his designated amount of challenges. Epilogue next week!


	31. Epilogue

“Fitz, come  _ on.  _ Jesus you just  _ had _ to stop for food…”

“I'm  _ coming.  _ Wouldn't’ve  _ had  _ to stop for food if you'd booked us on the right flight…”

“Oh for crying…”

“...it'll just be  _ one day  _ Fitz…”

“...don't know how many times I can apologize…”

“... _ definitely _ make it back in time…”

“...didn't exactly hear you complaining when you were face-first in a chocolate fountain…”

“... _ no  _ chance of missing it…”

“Shh!”

Daisy swats him on the chest as they step into the sunlight and are greeted with the sound of the steady thwack of a tennis ball interspersed with the telltale grunts of the players below.

Glancing at the scoreboard, Fitz winces when he sees how much of the match he and Daisy have already missed before grinning at the fact that, if the 6-1, 4-0 score is anything to go by, it seems as though they haven't  _ actually  _ missed much.

Following Daisy’s lead, Fitz maneuvers his way through the stands, quickly flashing his pass at a security guard, before joining the small group of people already seated in the VIP box. Keeping his eyes on the court below as he moves into the reserved section, he doesn’t even bother hiding the awestruck expression on his face as he observes the payers below. Despite the  _ many  _ matches he’s watched over his lifetime, there’s always a beauty to the almost effortless manner in which this game is played when the competitors are in their element. 

Barely settled in his seat, Fitz cringes when a muttered, “You're  _ late,”  _ is heard over the silence of the transfixed crowd.

Turning slightly to better face May, Fitz let’s the petulance come out as he mumbles under his breath, “Yeah well you can blame my genius agent for that.” Glancing at Daisy long enough to see that she’s already snuggled into Trip’s side and likely won’t be making any sort of defensive retort, Fitz turns back to May and questions, “She’s doing well then?”

The older woman lets out a small hum, eyes carefully tracking the ball as it ping-pongs from one side of the court to the other, before commenting, “Not up to her usual standards. She shouldn’t have dropped that game in the first set. You're distracting her.”

Eyes bugging at her words, first at the reminder that _perfection_ is a more accurate way of describing the duo’s, ‘usual standards,’ and then at the comment that _he’s_ the reason they aren’t being met, Fitz all but yelps out his defense. “I’m distr…. I _just_ got here!”

“ _ Exactly.  _ When her eyes haven't been on the ball they’ve been on the stands looking for  _ you. _ ”

May’s brow is raised pointedly when she shifts her gaze from the court to meet his own, and Fitz finds himself gulping at the sight. Despite having gotten better at reading her, he still can’t quite suss out when May is having a laugh at his expense and carefully stares at her to try and figure out whether she is  _ now _ . Even if she  _ is _ intentionally trying to wind him up as a joke, Fitz knows that the best lies are built on small truths, meaning that her comment is likely more accurate than not. Casting a quick glance at Jemma, Fitz feels a small flicker of nervous guilt as he worries that his absence really  _ was  _ a distraction, or the very least a disappointment for the woman below.

Shifting his gaze back to May, Fitz rubs at his neck and explains, “I  _ told  _ Daisy that we’d be cutting it too close but I asked Jem what she thought before I left and she said to go for it so I…”

Fitz’s sentence is cut off by raucous cheers and the sound causes his eyes to snap from May to the court below where Jemma has just won another game. Suddenly every concern surrounding his conversation with May evaporates and his sole focus shifts to cheering as wildly as the strangers around him. Sticking his fingers in his mouth, Fitz whistles loudly in time with the surrounding applause and feels his heart thrum in his chest when, as if she can actually hear him over the thundering crowd, Jemma’s eyes lock on his.

The shift is miniscule, likely unnoticed by the thousands of onlookers, but Fitz can see the excited glint in Jemma’s eyes from his seat when their gazes meet. Making a show of standing up on his seat, he cups his hands around his mouth and joins in with the more boisterous members of the crowd as they shout their praises. Beaming at the sight of Jemma biting her lip to keep her  _ own  _ grin in check, Fitz gives her a quick wink when she shoots him a look. She pointedly turns away from him at that and Fitz laughs as both Daisy and May yank him back into his seat, the former hissing his name as she shifts her gaze to the other woman.

Swallowing, Fitz shifts his eyes over to May and is unsurprised to find her staring at him with her standard stony expression. Ducking his head like a chastised infant, Fitz mumbles apologetically, “Right, right. I know, distraction.”

“No...  _ motivator. _ ”

Eyes widening at the words, Fitz’s head snaps up to find a small smirk on May’s face as she jerks her head back down to the court. Glancing to where her gaze is now focused, Fitz feels his eyes widen even more when he sees that in the half minute that has gone by, Jemma’s already a point up in what’s looking to be the last game of the match.

Ignoring the soft snicker an accompanying, “So whipped,” coming from his other side, Fitz keeps his eyes on Jemma, not wanting to miss any more of her match than he already has. It doesn’t take long for her to win the next two points, smacking a pair of back-to-back aces that he’s not sure  _ anyone  _ on the circuit could return effectively, and he finds himself quite literally sitting on the edge of his seat as she prepares for match point.

He doesn’t have any  _ real  _ reason to be nervous considering Jemma had absolutely dominated the circuit over the past year, but Fitz knows better than anyone how quickly the tides can turn and feels his heart hammering in his chest as Jemma tosses the ball into the air.

Her serve is impeccably placed, as most are, and makes the return an easy one for Jemma to immediately parry. The crosscourt forehand that rockets off her racquet suddenly makes Fitz certain that there’s no reason to worry about this match ending in anything other than another Simmons victory. Each shot Jemma hits is as precise and methodical as ever but it’s also clear that she’s  _ having fun.  _ There’s a lightness to her step that can’t be attributed to her hours of training and Fitz knows that the end is in sight.

Sure enough, it only takes two more shots before Jemma slams a backhand past Raina where she’s waiting at the net and synches her title as one of few players to consecutively win each of the Grand Slams in the same year.

Fitz is out of his seat the second the ball bounces against the grass, whooping in excitement with the rest of the Brits packed into the stadium and feeling a bit of moisture gather in his eyes as Jemma’s serious expression immediately transforms into one of unbridled joy. Glancing over at May, Fitz sees nothing but pride on the older woman’s face and finds himself floored by the deep affection that she has for her player. Having spent much of time with the pair since the  _ last  _ Wimbledon, Fitz has grown to better understand how deep their bond truly is. Today’s win is more than just Jemma’s and Fitz can’t help but think that no coach deserves this as much as Melinda May.

He somehow feels brave enough to reach over and squeeze her shoulder in congratulations and is admittedly shocked when she not only  _ lets  _ him, but also moves her own hand to give his an affectionate pat. Catching her gaze, Fitz gives her a small smile and feels as though he can conquer the world when she returns it with one of her own. It’s just the faintest upturn of lips at first but it grows when her eyes flicker to the court and she jerks her head to get him to follow her gaze.

Shifting his eyes back below, Fitz immediately zeroes in on Jemma and finds that her own gaze already locked on him. The utter joy on her face spurns him into motion and, quickly moving to the edge of the barricade, Fitz briefly contemplates launching himself from the private box to the court below before thinking better of it. His stunt from last year had been in every tabloid (and a few more refutable papers) for  _ weeks  _ after the finals and, though he’d like nothing more than give Jemma the biggest congratulatory hug he can, Fitz has no intention of making another show for the second Wimbledon in a row.

_ Jemma  _ on the other hand seems all too happy to keep their tradition going, moving with purpose in his direction, the smile on her face growing toothier with each step she takes and flooring him just as easily as it had a year ago.

_ Ice queen my arse. _

His feels his own smile expanding as he watches her grab a chair from the sidelines without taking her eyes from him, tugging it behind her until she comes to a halt in front of the wall separating the box from the court. Shoving the chair up against the wall, Jemma clambers atop it until her head is just barely popping over the ledge. Bending down until his head is hanging over the edge to meet her halfway, Fitz grins as Jemma pushes up on her toes to land a smacking kiss to his lips.

It’s quick,  _ certainly  _ not even close to the public display from last year, but the promise behind it causes an instant warmth to make its way through Fitz’s body. When she lands back on her feet, Jemma gives him another toothy smile before casually commenting, “You’re late.”

Letting out a small groan, Fitz lets his head fall against the railing before lifting it again and catching Jemma’s eye. Though worried when May had chastised him for his tardiness, it only takes a second for him to realize that Jemma’s words are teasing in nature- the amused twinkle in her eyes making it more than obvious. With the knowledge that she isn’t genuinely upset about his tardiness, Fitz feels the anxiety dissipate as he reaches down to link his fingers through Jemma’s where they’re resting along the banister, a challenging grin crossing his face.

“Then the next time Daisy tells me she’s got a brilliant idea… don’t encourage me to actually  _ listen  _ to her.”

This causes Jemma’s smile to widen and she immediately waves her free hand dismissively at his words, shrugging in the very definition of nonchalance. “It’s fine. I didn’t miss you all that much anyway.”

Raising his brows at her teasing, Fitz happily takes the bait and continues their game, letting out a hum before fixing her with a look and saying, “Funny, because May said you couldn’t keep your eyes off the stands all match... Looking for someone?”

Grinning at the immediate blush that erupts across Jemma’s cheeks at his words, Fitz ducks closer to her and gives her a look. Eyes immediately shifting to focus on her mouth as she pulls her lip between her teeth, Fitz waits to see if Jemma will keep things going or raise the proverbial white flag in surrender and admit that she’d missed him. He’s not surprised when she opts for the former, rolling her eyes at his question and squeezing his hand with a scoff.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I was keeping my eyes on May, not on the enormous void that was your empty seat.”

Letting out a skeptical snort, Fitz gives Jemma a droll look that he hopes conveys how utterly unbelievable that excuse is. “Yes, because the woman who could put the Queen’s Guard to shame in terms of immobility is really someone you need to watch out for. Why on earth would you need to keep track of  _ May _ ?”

“Probably because I’ve spent the past hour holding onto  _ this  _ for her.”

Jumping slightly at the sound of May’s voice in his ear, Fitz barely has time to process her words before her hand is reaching over his shoulder and passing a small object to Jemma. It only takes a second to register just what it is that May has been safekeeping and Fitz grins as the diamond sparkles beneath the stadium spotlights. He watches as Jemma returns the ring to its rightful spot on her left hand and feels his heart stutter-stop at the warm smile that makes its way across her face once it’s settled.

Though only engaged a few short weeks, with him nervously stuttering out his proposal just a fortnight before the start of Wimbledon, the sight of the engagement ring nestled between Jemma’s fingers is one that seems more natural to Fitz than anything in the world. It had taken a veritable army to pick it out, all of the women in his life  _ as well  _ as Hunter chiming in with their opinions, and if Jemma’s initial teary reaction hadn’t confirmed it when he’d nervously thrust it in her direction, the look of wonder that always seems to flash across her face when her eyes glance down at her hand makes Fitz certain that he’d done a good job. The warmth that floods through  _ him  _ each time he catches sight of it could put the sun to shame and he still can’t quite believe that in a short year he’s gone from fling to fianc é. 

As if she can hear his disbelief, Jemma catches his eyes and pushes herself up again to press a deep kiss to his mouth. He’s dimly aware of the hoots of the crowd, a sound so familiar that it’s more like white noise, but ignores them in favor of focusing only on the feeling of Jemma’s lips moving against his. Though familiar, the feeling is one that he’ll never get used to and, when Jemma finally pulls away, he’s once again left in a stunned daze.

“Love you.”

Jemma’s soft words, combined with the feeling of her chilled hands (and the chilled band of her ring) against her face, make Fitz’s heart swell as a beaming smile erupts across his face. Reflecting back on their year together, a myriad of memories flashing through his mind, Fitz finds that  _ love  _ doesn’t do his feelings for Jemma justice. But now isn’t the time for amateur poetry or ballads, so Fitz looks at her with as much openness as he can muster in the hopes that his real message will come across as he says,  “Back ‘atcha... Now go claim the most coveted trophy in the UK.”

Jemma lets out a joyful laugh at that, pressing another chaste kiss against his mouth before hopping back down to the court and keeping her eyes on him as she raises her left hand with a grin and says, “Didn’t you hear Fitz, Leo Fitz? I already have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaannnnd.... Fin.
> 
> Many thanks for all of you who've taken the time to read this sucker and leave comments over the past few months. Hopefully it entertained you a bit!


End file.
